


When the Wind Blows Through It

by BonesOfBirdWings



Series: Abandoned Fics [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Grey Harry, Hogwarts First Year, Slytherin Harry, Smart Harry, Talking To Dead People
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-24 21:05:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1617053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonesOfBirdWings/pseuds/BonesOfBirdWings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Death is not… It's the absence of presence, nothing more … the endless time of never coming back … a gap you can't see, and when the wind blows through it, it makes no sound…" - Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, by Tom Stoppard</p><p> </p><p>Harry has been able to see ghosts for as long as he could remember, and when he learns about magic, he thinks he has his explanation. But Harry is still unique in the magical world, and with enemies closing in from all sides, he must learn how to gather the support he’ll need. Trusting the living is no easy thing.</p><p>ABANDONED. NOT UP FOR ADOPTION, BUT FEEL FREE TO USE DETAILS OF THE AU IN OTHER FICS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Prologue

He had been able to see them as long as he could remember. They hung about him, their milky, translucent bodies haloed by the meager light that illuminated his cupboard. While the other children played football and tag during recess, he sat alone, tracing their outlines while the babble of their voices filled his ears.

His first word spoken to his relatives had been “hungrig”, and although they could have mistaken the Old English word for its Modern English equivalent, they couldn’t have ignored the following string of guttural, unfamiliar words. It was his first visit to the cramped cupboard that would become his permanent residence.

He was a freak, he knew. His relatives told him often enough. The neighborhood kids laughed at him behind his back, calling him crazy and disturbed. His spirit companions assured him that he was a normal human being, with normal feelings and needs, but they were dead, and their time among the living was a long-faded memory. The fact that he could even hear their opinions was a testament to his freakishness.

Normal children didn’t see the spirits of the dead, didn’t hear their lilting voices, didn't know the time it takes for a satisfied spirit to fade out of this world and into the next. Normal children didn’t watch impassively as their elderly neighbor was killed by a drunk driver in front of their eyes, but sob weeks later as her contented soul disappeared from the mortal world. Normal children didn’t ask for history lessons from long-forgotten knights who wanted nothing more than to tell their tales of valor and daring to a receptive audience.

Normal children didn’t do any of these things, so Harry Potter felt that he was perfectly justified in claiming that he wasn’t normal.


	2. Of Ghosts and Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are ghosts, of all shapes and sizes, and letters, although only one really matters.

Dudley’s birthday began like any other day in the Dursleys’ house for Harry. Petunia’s shrill voice penetrated his sleep, and with a groan, Harry heaved himself out of bed. He ran his fingers through his messy, shoulder-length hair and threw on his oversized rags before dragging himself out of his room. 

Well, to be honest, it was cupboard, not a room, but as various spirits liked to remind him, many peasants in early England would have been ecstatic to sleep in his warm, dry cupboard. Harry felt that they were probably exaggerating a bit, especially that vicar, Thomas. Thomas had also tried to get Harry to believe that the Church would hang nonbelievers by their ears over a pit of fire while a man whipped them viciously until they fell unconscious. Harry suspected that Thomas had begun to confuse reality with fantasy some time ago, but luckily all Harry had to do to send him off was sit through a couple of sermons. There was entirely too much hellfire, and Thomas was a mediocre preacher at best, but his face had been beatific when he had faded, like he was seeing the God that he had told Harry so much about.

His companions right now were much more difficult to satisfy, Harry mused as he cooked his relatives’ breakfast mindlessly. A good number of them needed him to deliver a message to their loved ones, but he would have to go into London for that, and he didn’t yet have enough money saved up. A few more wanted certain people killed, but Harry informed them that while he was still a child, this was definitely out of the question. Once he was an adult, he would revisit the prospect, since a passing-over for a death seemed a fair trade for him. These vengeance-obsessed spirits knew to stay out of his way, since he would simply outright refuse to help if they became too annoying. It had happened before.

A couple of his ghostly companions, however, requested much stranger favors. Why Aelfred desperately needed him to scribe, in Elder Futhark, an epic poem about the trials of two ill-fated lovers was a mystery to Harry, but the work was at least one-hundred pages already and still growing. Maeve was currently teaching Harry how to play a wooden pipe which, with Maeve’s instructions, Harry had laboriously whittled from a branch of the Dursleys’ tree. Benedict was teaching Harry how to read and speak Latin “so that at least one man in this god-forsaken land will properly speak a civilized tongue.” It was tough going, but after five years, Harry was almost up to Benedict’s strict standards.

Distracted by his thoughts, Harry didn’t notice Dudley until he was too close to be avoided. The large boy pushed Harry roughly with his shoulder, and it was only because of Harry’s quick reflexes that he didn’t knock into the pan on the stove and send the bacon tumbling to the floor. Dudley continued into the dining room with a bark of unpleasant laughter, leaving Harry to regain his footing with an unseen sneer aimed at his cousin’s back. 

The crowd of ghosts that constantly surrounded Harry murmured in disapproval at the obese boy’s behavior. They were only a fraction of the spirits that were seeking Harry’s help currently, and the composition of the group varied widely from day to day as some ghosts would drift away to occupy themselves and others would return from their explorations. He was used to his constant companions, and found them a comfort in his unpleasant relatives’ house.

He finished up breakfast quickly after his Dudley-induced near-miss with the frying pan, stealing the burnt bacon when none of his relatives were nearby. It wasn’t like they actively starved him, but they certainly didn’t overfeed him, like they did Dudley. It was always a good idea to grab food when possible.

He loaded the eggs and bacon onto three plates and efficiently set the table for his relatives. Once the food was served, he retired to his cupboard, unwilling to face the sight of Dudley’s mounds of presents or to hear the fat pig clamor for even more. The cupboard wasn’t pleasant; it was small, dark, and filthy, no matter how much Harry cleaned it. However, within his room, he could talk with his own friends in peace.

With a sigh, he settled back on his cot, hearing the clomp of Vernon’s feet on the stairs. He waited, patiently, until the obese man had waddled past his door, and then spoke to the ghostly man who was floating at the foot of his cot. “Benedict? Anything you need?”

The spirit was silent for a moment and Harry wondered at his uncharacteristic behavior. Usually, the ghost was vibrant and full of energy, not sober and reserved. Finally, Benedict curtly spoke, in Latin, “Speak with me.”

Puzzled by his strange behavior, but willing to fulfill his usual request for a conversation in Latin, Harry spoke with Benedict about his morning and his expectations for an interminable day with Dudley being more obnoxious than usual. Benedict said very little, but prompted Harry to continue speaking when the one-sided conversation would lag. 

Eventually, after several hours had passed, Benedict raised one hand to stop Harry. Confused, Harry cocked his head at Benedict quizzically. Benedict smiled at Harry, a small, peaceful smile that made Harry’s blood run cold. Benedict never smiled like this; his was a bright, roguish grin. This expression on his face….

“No,” Harry whispered. “No, Benedict, you can’t leave.”

“It has been five and a half years, Harry, and you speak Latin admirably,” the ghost replied with a faint expression of regret.

“Yes, Benedict, five and a half years. That’s half of my life. You can’t leave me!” Harry’s eyes began to swim with tears.

“You knew this day was coming, Harry,” Benedict said, trying to comfort the distraught boy. Harry said nothing in return, watching with horror as his friend’s body became more and more transparent. They stood together in silence for several long moments, Harry staring at Benedict’s chest and Benedict smiling fondly down at Harry’s dark mop of hair.

“I’ll miss you,” Harry said finally, his voice defeated and resigned.

“Thank you, Harry,” said Benedict, as the edges of his figure blurred.

Nothing more was said and as the last vestiges of his friend disappeared from the Earth, Harry felt tears run down his face.

“Idiot,” he whispered harshly. “Why do you even do this to yourself?”

He listened to the muffled sounds of his cousin’s birthday celebrations while he numbly lay on his threadbare cot. The aching sense of loss twisted his gut and he fought down the urge to sob, scream, scratch at the confining wooden door. Benedict had left him, and Harry would never hear his voice again. He yearned for his familiar litany of forms, a comforting recitation of cases and declensions. Benedict was gone, and all Harry had of him was a dead language.

It was his own fault, he knew. If he wasn’t such a crusader, making each and every ghost’s final wish his personal quest, they would stay forever, continuously unsatisfied. But it would be as much his fault if their pale faces fell when he refused to fulfill their final requests. He had declared that he would no longer assist the dead in crossing over after one of his best friends passed over four years ago, but the distraught expressions of his cadre of ghosts had forced him to re-shoulder his burdens.

Harry floated in a self-pitying sorrow for a time, letting his feelings of loss bubble from his stomach and engulf his body. He didn’t notice as the noises outside his cupboard died down and Dudley’s gleeful squeals morphed into an excited chattering that was punctuated by the scrape of shoes on the floor. His uncle’s voice yelled something through the cupboard door, but Harry barely registered it. Something about a zoo, and not burning down a house. He called an absentminded affirmative back to Uncle Vernon, and curled into a fetal position.

The front door slammed, but Harry couldn’t be bothered to care. Silent rivulets of tears ran down his cheeks and dripped onto the gray, thin sheets. If he had raised his head and looked around, he would have seen a ring of faint silhouettes surrounding him, heads bowed in respect of his mourning. But he didn’t, and their support went unnoticed.

******************************************************************

The loss of Benedict hit Harry hard, and for the next month, his other companions labored intensively to restore his characteristic good spirits. To distract Harry from his brooding, Aelfred and Maeve monopolized much of his time. Harry added a good twenty pages onto Aelfred’s poetic masterpiece, and spent hours in Little Whinging’s park with his wooden flute. 

During this time, school ended and his final grades were delivered to the Dursleys, along with Dudley’s. Harry’s were barely passing, since he rarely did his work and found it more interesting to concentrate on his ghosts rather than his teachers during class. He couldn’t be bothered to care, though. Low grades meant that Petunia wouldn’t retaliate, and besides, it wasn’t like he was contemplating an academic career. Harry strongly suspected that much of his future would be comprised of him catering to the whims of ghosts. He didn’t mind though, because no one else could see or help them. Some of them had been stuck here for centuries, wandering around with unfinished business. If he could free them, send them to wherever unburdened spirits go, why wouldn’t he? Even, he had to remind himself daily, if it hurt to see them leave. 

On the day that the letter came, Harry was woken at sunrise by Maeve’s insistent muttering in his ear. With a groan, he heaved himself out of bed and blearily wiped the sleep from his eyes before throwing on his clothes, grabbing his flute, and sneaking out of the house. The street was devoid of people, although it was peppered with a variety of ghosts, and would have been quiet, except that excitable Maeve was singing a high, sweet song as she bounced in circles around him.

When Harry got to the park, settled into his favorite corner, and began to warm up on his flute, Maeve ceased singing and concentrated single-mindedly on Harry’s fingering exercises. It was always strange for Harry to see Maeve’s utter focus on his music, since she was generally absentminded, prone to drifting off for days at a time, although not one of these absences had occurred since Benedict’s passing.

After he ran through his sets of difficult fingerings, Harry played various jigs and lullabies that Maeve had taught him. Today, she ran through a new piece with him, to Harry’s delight. The speed and complexity would have made this tune impossible for him to play a mere six months ago, but Maeve said that Harry had been improving by leaps and bounds recently.

“Good!” she exclaimed with a sunny smile once Harry had finished practicing. “That was beautiful, darling.”

After a surreptitious glance around the park to ascertain if any humans were in sight, Harry returned Maeve’s smile. “Thanks,” he replied in the same language, which, as far as he could tell from the public library’s language books, was Middle Irish with some elements of Early Modern Irish. It was similar to the language that Colm, one of Harry’s best friends from the cradle, had spoken, and so he had very little trouble understanding Maeve.

“You are getting much better,” Maeve told him as they made their way back to the Dursleys. “Not yet up to my standards,” she assured him as his face blanched. “I am not following Benedict for some time yet.” She smiled brightly at Harry. “I have only spent two years with my favorite human! I cannot leave him with so little familiarity with my favorite instrument.”

Harry nodded in acceptance of her words, but examined her suspiciously. He knew that his ghostly friends had been worried for him since Benedict’s disappearance, and he didn’t trust her not to lie to him in order to preserve his peace of mind. However, she seemed honest, her grin authentic and the gleam in her eyes unforced. It took a special skill to read a ghost’s hazy face, but Harry had practice, and he thought that Maeve’s statement seemed genuine.

When they finally reached the house, Harry quickly darted to the kitchen, not daring Petunia’s wrath if he seemed to be “slacking.” His relatives were tolerant of his morning excursions only if they didn’t interfere with any chores that they wanted him to do. Harry wouldn’t be allowed to do “freakish things,” like play old Irish tunes on his wooden flute, near the house, so his daily trips to the park were absolutely necessary. He wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize them.

Which meant that he served his repulsive relatives with a small smile and took their insults without a twitch. The crowd of ghosts arrayed throughout the house helped him with his endeavors to be faultlessly polite by performing silly antics to keep the grin on his face and miming injuring the Dursleys when the verbal abuse got to unbearable levels. They did this every day, and Harry was thankful for it. Since he spent so much of his time with ghosts, it was often hard for him to deal with modern human behavior, and the Dursleys were significantly more odious than normal modern humans, in his opinion.

Like usual, halfway through breakfast, Vernon Dursley pierced Harry with a glare and his pudgy lips twisted into a sneer. “Go get the mail, boy,” he snapped at Harry. With a servile nod, Harry backed out of the dining room and into the entryway to scoop up the mail that lay by the front door. Absently, he shuffled through the letters, perusing the mix of bills and advertisements, vaguely hoping to discover some embarrassing letter that he could laugh about with his friends when Vernon next locked him in the cupboard.

However, he found a very strange letter about halfway through the pile that was sealed in a parchment envelope. He looked closer, curious about the sort of person who would write his narrow-minded uncle such a letter, and realized with a start that it was addressed to him. Stunned, he froze, stopping in front of his cupboard door. Who would write a note to me? he thought, followed immediately by: I can’t let the Dursleys see. Years of having his belongings snatched from him by a jealous Dudley and suspicious Petunia had taught him that he shouldn’t show anything to his relatives that he wanted to keep. Frantically, he stuffed the letter under his cupboard door and resolved to do absolutely nothing that would require his relatives to open the door to his room. 

Aelfred, his oldest friend, observed Harry’s strange behavior quizzically. Harry jerked his head at the cupboard door. Not understanding, but acquiescing to Harry’s non-verbal request, Aelfred floated through the door in order to inspect the letter that Harry had shoved underneath.

Harry calmed his breath and straightened his shirt, determined to look as unflustered as possible, although his curiosity was making his hands jittery with anticipation. He strode back into the dining room and handed the mail to Vernon with only a slight tremble. Vernon snatched the papers from Harry with a grunt and Harry felt his muscles release their tension as relief flooded his body.

Harry spent the rest of the day doing his chores to perfection as his friends entertained him with chatter. Mairead told him a legend of King Arthur in Old English that he had never heard before while he weeded the garden, and Jack, the previous inhabitant of Number Four, Privet Drive, described the intricacies of architectural planning while Harry cleaned the shed that Jack had built back in the 50s. Harry was grateful for their efforts at distraction, since without them, he was sure that he would have abandoned all attempts at self-control and run to his cupboard long ago.

Finally, he completed the last of the chores and hurriedly stowed his supplies, dumping out the filthy, soapy water and storing the cleaning rag inside the empty bucket. Quickly but carefully, Harry darted to his cupboard, his companions keeping watch for him.

Once inside, Harry shut the door and turned to Aelfred, who had a strange expression on his hazy face. “What is it, Aelfred?” Harry asked, eyeing the letter with a good deal more trepidation than before. Aelfred was rarely perplexed, so his present bemusement didn’t bode well.

“It claims,” said Aelfred in his deep, melodic voice, “that it is from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.” 

Harry’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Do you think it’s from Dudley and his friends, or something? Some juvenile prank?” His voice dripped with derision.

“That was my first reaction as well,” Aelfred said with a small smile. “But I reasoned that this was a great deal of effort to put into a prank that had very little comic potential, as the boys would likely never see your reaction to it. Besides,” he said with a smirk, “it is a bit more cerebral than their general style of mischief.” Harry returned his smirk with a sharp sneer of his own.

“So,” Aelfred continued, “I analyzed the writing itself on the note. Look,” he ordered, pointing to the envelope, and Harry obliged, crouching down to get a better look, but making sure not to touch the letter. “See? The writing is in ink, but it is not done by one of those strange pens you insist on using. The lines are not sharp enough and they are too thick, suggesting that a dull quill was used to address this letter.”

Harry had never used a quill before, so he had to take Aelfred’s analysis on faith. He critically examined the letter himself, attempting to find the slightest clue that Dudley had smeared his fat fingers on this unbelievable envelope, but he found nothing. The address was slightly creepy, he had to admit, and somewhat suspect, but his cousin had never made a secret of his living arrangements. Probably half of his grade knew that he slept in the cupboard like some sort of animal, so it wouldn’t be hard for the writer of this letter to acquire that bit of knowledge. Also, the letters were too well-formed for a student in Primary School. The loops and curves were perfectly drawn…

Harry rocked back on his heels in shock. They were perfectly drawn, each letter exact, as if a person had typed the address on the letter. He peered close again, re-examining the letter to disprove his wild, impossible idea, but he couldn’t find a single difference between the “r” in Harry and the “r” in Hogwarts, the capital “H” was the same throughout the address….

“Someone used a quill,” Harry said, stunned, “a quill that works like a word processor. They claim that they are a school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and they used a quill that types.” He looked up beseechingly at Aelfred, confusion and a hint of fear swimming in his expressive green eyes. “Aelfred, is this real?”

Aelfred gave Harry a small smile that carried a hint of pride, and Harry realized that Aelfred had seen the same details that Harry noticed, but had waited to see if Harry was astute enough to catch the inexplicable features of the letter. Harry huffed out an irritated breath at Aelfred’s test, but inside, he was truly grateful for it. Aelfred’s familiar behavior of random tests was an anchor in the current maelstrom of the world. Harry’s entire worldview was shifting to accommodate this information and he was comforted immensely by the security of his companion’s habitual quirks.

“I am slightly convinced by this evidence,” Aelfred said. “Perhaps, though, you should open the letter before coming to any conclusions.”

This was sound advice, and Harry forced down his suspicions and fears and reached for the parchment envelope. Carefully, with trembling fingers, he extracted the letter, which, he noticed was written on the same parchment and with the same abnormal quill as the envelope. He unfolded it slowly, and when Aelfred shot him an impatient glare, began to read out loud.

“Dear Harry Potter,” he read. “We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1st. We await your owl no later than July 31st.”

Harry gazed up at Aelfred in a dazed sort of confusion. Gently, the ghost instructed him to pull out the supplies list so that they could both read it. Harry realized, in the small part of his mind that was still thinking rationally, that Aelfred was probably determined to present as much information as he could to Harry so that he could assimilate it all at once.

Harry could only agree that it was a good idea, since he could only imagine his reaction to this list if he was fully cognizant of how strange all of this was. Cauldrons? Robes? Quills? Was this Hogwarts place still stuck in the Middle Ages? He tried to process as much as he could, but this whole experience was exceedingly surreal.

Aelfred and Harry finished picking through the letter long after night had fallen and Harry had begun to use the old flashlight that he had swiped from the toolshed during the school year. Harry found that after in-depth analysis and several hours devoted to processing the information, this whole concept was slightly more manageable, although he still couldn’t get rid of his niggling suspicions. When he confessed this to Aelfred, the ghost merely grinned and suggested that Harry send a return note (by owl, and how crazy was that?) and ask for a representative of the school to come and talk to him. Harry thought that this was brilliant, except for the teeny-weensy little fact that if the Dursleys found a wizard on their perfectly normal doorstep, he wouldn’t see the outside of his cupboard for years.

“Harry,” Aelfred said with an undertone of disappointment that made Harry want to curl up with shame. “Think, child. You cannot meet with the representative at the house, so you meet them elsewhere. Now, where is a good, easy, neutral place?”

Harry racked his brains for the answer. “The ice-cream parlor a few streets down?” he finally suggested. “I have enough money saved up and everything.”

Aelfred gave him an approving smile that made Harry warm with happiness. Together, they sat down with the piece of parchment and Harry’s pen to write out a response. It was slow going, since Aelfred insisted on a certain nuance of meaning that was difficult to translate from Old English to Modern English. Even though Aelfred had observed the entire progression of society from the Middle Ages to the 20th century, he was still unable to speak Modern English. Harry had realized that although ghosts were still able to learn and remember things after death, their memories formed in the afterlife tended to fade quickly. Therefore, Harry was stuck with translating for Aelfred.

Finally, as the first rays of light began to filter into his cupboard, Harry triumphantly folded up his reply and inserted it into the envelope. He had scratched out the addresses and had rewritten Hogwarts’ address, neglecting to add a return address. If the note bounced, (and Harry wasn’t sure how that would even work with owls) Harry didn’t want evidence of his freakishness to land on the Dursleys’ doorstep. 

Maeve was milling around with other ghosts at the corners of Harry’s cupboard and he called her over as he straightened his clothes and grabbed his flute, stuffing it in his pocket with the letter. Quickly, he darted out of the house, Maeve and Aelfred trailing behind him. As soon as he darted out of the Dursleys’ house, he spied a restless barn owl in a tree. Acting on a hunch, Harry whistled, high and shrill, and he winced at its volume. The last thing he wanted to do was to wake his relatives.

But it seemed to work. The owl flew over to land on the Dursley’s mailbox and hooted at him curiously. Tentatively, Harry extracted the letter from his pocket and held it out to the owl uncertainly. With an impatient chirp, the tawny owl snatched the paper from him and took off, quickly receding into the distance.

“Well,” Aelfred said as Harry stared at his outstretched hand in disbelief. “That was surprisingly easy. I half-expected that part to be in a code that we would have to decipher. It seems they mean ‘by owl’ literally.” He frowned up at the sky. “How bizarre.”

******************************************************************************

The next few days were torture for Harry. He had requested that the recipient of the letter not send a reply, and hoped that they would follow his instructions. If the Dursleys had a letter delivered to them by owl, he knew that he wouldn’t enjoy the consequences. 

His chores and his minor tasks for his companions blurred together into a haze of mechanical actions, until he woke one morning and discovered that it was the day he planned to meet the Hogwarts representative.

He was woken at sunrise by Maeve as usual, but today, they didn’t take a trip to the park. Harry dressed quickly and stowed his money in his pocket. It wasn’t much, just as much as he could pinch from the Dursleys and his classmates without them noticing. He had accumulated about 40£, but estimated that he’d only need about 30£ at most for his plan.

He snuck out of the Dursleys’ house and set off for the commercial district of Little Whinging where he could find a cheap clothing store. When he reached a secondhand store that conveniently opened at six o’clock, he sat outside and waited for several minutes, chatting quietly with Maeve, until it opened. As soon as the employee unlocked the front door, Harry dashed inside and began frantically to search the clothing section of the store to find a set of nice trousers and a proper button-down shirt to wear. Within ten minutes, he had found adequate clothes for his meeting, and they only cost him 20£ total.

Harry rushed back to the Dursleys’ house, conscious of the time and hoping that his relatives hadn’t yet woken. On his way back, he stowed his new clothes under a cluster of bushes near one of the relatively unfrequented corners of the park.

He was able to enter the house and hide his money again before any of his relatives noticed. Once his collection of stolen change had been safely hidden inside the hollow, metal legs of his cot and he had wiped the perspiration off his face, he relaxed, glad that this part of the plan had gone off without a hitch. 

He performed his chores that day with even more absentmindedness than usual, preoccupied with half-formed dreams of magic and wonder. His friends saved him from punishment several times, yelling frantically whenever Petunia or Dudley would approach. Somehow, although he spilled water on the kitchen tiles and almost uprooted a daffodil, he completed his chores without incident.

After he had cooked and served dinner to the Dursleys, he hurried out of the house with a couple pounds in his pocket. He jogged to the park, a horde of ghosts, including Maeve and Aelfred, following curiously. He liberated his clothes from underneath the bushes and noted with relief that they were undamaged. Harry surreptitiously maneuvered himself behind a small copse of trees and quickly stripped and redressed, making sure to transfer money from his rags to his new clothes. With a confidence that he didn’t feel, Harry stepped out from behind the trees and stowed Dudley’s graying castoffs beneath the bushes before setting off for the ice cream parlor.

It was astounding what a clean, green button-up shirt and a pair of black trousers could do for one’s confidence, Harry reflected as the ice cream parlor came into sight. He was still terrified, but at least he felt like he might not make an absolute fool of himself. The vague hopes of freedom from the Dursleys, from mediocrity, were teasing the edges of his mind, but with the cynical knowledge that dreams rarely come to fruition, Harry suppressed them viciously.

He listened to his friends’ encouragement as he entered the parlor and went through the motions of ordering a double scoop of chocolate and peanut butter ice cream. When he received his order, he made his way to a double table situated by a window in order to better view the street. His ghosts clustered around him, although some floated throughout the store, examining the machinery and the variety of people that chattered happily to each other. Nervously, Harry tugged on his bangs so that they covered the ugly scar on his forehead. He wanted to make the best impression possible, and that meant concealing the scar that he received in the car crash that killed his parents.

About ten minutes after Harry’s arrival, a sallow, dark-haired man slunk into the parlor. Harry didn’t like the sight of the man’s sneer, which gave his face a very sharp, malevolent cast. The man drew Harry’s attention like a magnet though, and he thought he felt faint tingles skittering along his arms as the man brushed by his table to order his ice cream.

Harry had learned early in life that staring at someone was an easy way to garner unwanted attention and unearned hostility. So, although he was fascinated by the man, he forced his eyes to drift across the room and gaze out into the street. If he looked into the window at the right angle, he noticed that he could spy on the pale man without actively being rude. The man, he noted, was curt with the employees, and was obviously a touch annoyed to be here.

“Do you think that this man is the representative?” asked Aelfred, following Harry’s gaze to the black-haired man. Harry nodded once, a small, imperceptible twitch of the head. Aelfred stared at the man calculatingly and narrowed his eyes. “Be careful,” Aelfred finally stated. “He observes well; his eyes are sharp and constantly roving. He is suspicious of everything.” He dropped to the level of Harry’s ear when the representative turned and began to pick his way through the crowd of people. “Remember,” Aelfred urged. “Give nothing away, if you can manage it.”

The sneering man dodged around one last squalling child and finally stopped in front of Harry’s table. For the first time, Harry was able to observe him fully. His black hair hung lank and oily around his face, accentuating the pallor of his skin. His clothes, a set of black dress trousers and a dark shirt, made him seem even more intimidating, and Harry had to stifle a laugh at the incongruity of the pastel pink ice cream cup in the man’s hand.

“Mr. Potter?” the man asked coolly with a hint of distain. His voice was rich and nuanced, and Harry imagined that the man was probably a wonderful baritone.

“Yes,” Harry confirmed. “Are you from-” he flapped his hands ineffectually, unsure if he should mention the name of a magical school in a non-magic shop.

The man smirked at Harry’s flailing and took the seat opposite him. With a fluid motion, he pulled a long, thin stick from his sleeve and flicked it once before replacing it. Harry felt the same unpleasant prickling that he had noticed when the man had entered the parlor, although it was much stronger than the previous tingling. His current feeling was analogous to an array of tiny needles pricking his skin. It was slightly painful, but mostly just uncomfortable. Harry prevented himself from squirming with an effort.

“Hogwarts,” the man stated with dark amusement. “I have erected a simple Notice-Me-Not charm. The Muggles cannot hear a word of our conversation.” Harry tensed, expecting questions about his choice of venue, but the man blithely continued. “My name is Professor Severus Snape,” he explained with a hint of a sneer playing about his mouth. “I am the Potions Professor at Hogwarts, as well as Slytherin’s Head of House.”

Harry found himself utterly perplexed at this deluge of terms, but instinctively repressed his questions. It wasn’t good to bother a flesh-and-blood human with stupid questions, he had learned. At school, he’d get an admonition to pipe down and sit quietly, while the Dursleys would shove him in the cupboard. It was much safer to simply look up information in books or ask his ghosts, since they weren’t hostile or uncooperative.

Professor Snape observed him with narrowed eyes until Harry nodded, unwilling to admit his ignorance to a possible enemy. Then, Snape’s expression cleared, leaving only a hint of some strange emotion in his dark eyes. Harry had the sinking sense that he’d played right into this man’s hands, but he had no idea what he’d done.

They sat in an uncomfortable silence for several long moments, and Harry had to suppress the urge to fidget. Finally, the professor shifted and produced a familiar piece of folded parchment from his pocket. He smoothed it out with stained, elegant fingers, and Harry could see the phrase “Dear Harry Potter” on the back of the parchment. He wondered what purpose Snape had for bringing along Harry’s letter.

“You said in your letter that you are unfamiliar with the magical world,” said Snape as he perused the note. “That is correct, is it not, Mr. Potter?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied, feeling uncomfortable and wary with this line of questioning. “My guardians are non-magical.”

“We call them Muggles,” Snape said offhandedly. “So I assume that you are unaware of your financial and political standing in our world?”

“Yes, sir.”

Snape hmmed noncommittally, folding the letter gently and stowing it in his pocket. He looked piercingly at Harry. “There is much that myself or others will have to tell you, but I believe that business can wait.” He stood fluidly and picked up his ice cream, which Harry noticed was still uneaten, and dropped it into the trash receptacle by the door. Harry followed, and together they exited the parlor. As they emerged into the fading sunshine, Snape peered at his watch and frowned.

“We have barely enough time,” he snapped out at Harry. “Hold onto my arm.”

Cautiously, unsure of the professor’s intentions, Harry fastened one hand loosely around the man’s forearm, shooting an apprehensive look towards Aelfred as he did so. The ghost didn’t look any more comfortable than he did.

“No, boy,” Snape said with exasperation. Harry flinched at the tone and the epithet of “boy.” As soon as he did, he cursed himself silently. He was trying to act normally. Maybe the man had missed his flinch.

“You need to step closer,” the professor instructed in a slightly softer voice. Harry cursed to himself again. This man was too observant!

He shuffled a little closer to Professor Snape, unwilling to completely discard the protection of the space between them.

The professor sighed exasperatedly and sharply tugged his arm out of Harry’s limp grip. “Fine,” he bit out. “We will seek alternate transportation.” He began to stalk down the sidewalk as Harry stood motionless behind him. “Come here!” the man snapped. “We are going to take the thrice-damned train to appease your delicate Muggle-raised sensibilities, so you will hurry. Now.”

As Harry jogged to catch up with Snape’s retreating back, his ghostly companions floated around him, a reassuring presence in the face of Snape’s volatile personality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand, here's the first chapter. Expect the second in a few days. Please review!


	3. Of Goblins and Wands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are goblins, many of whom are grumpy, and wands, many of which are grumpy as well.

The trip to London was silent. Snape wasn’t naturally disposed to chatter, it seemed, and Harry was reluctant to disturb him. He had to admit, Snape hadn’t done anything to prove unworthy of Harry’s trust, but Harry didn’t want to provoke the man, especially if he was going to be one of Harry’s teachers.

Besides, the ghosts were talking enough for both of them. Various ghosts took turns chatting with Harry, who answered with flicks of his eyes and minute twitches of his head. He was used to communicating with them unobtrusively. He had learned early in life that if he wanted a semblance of normal social interactions, he had to stop talking and responding to the ghosts to which the rest of the world was blind.

He had hoped, briefly, that this “wizardry and witchcraft” would include seeing the spirits of the dead. However, Snape was giving no sign that he could see Harry’s companions, even when they asked him pointed questions and did funny dances in front of him. “Magic” seemed to be the strange, slightly painful thing that sent shivers down his spine and caused his skin to pebble with goosebumps.

As the train they were riding approached London, the ranks of ghosts around Harry began to thin. Harry had learned on his first attempt to invite John, a business executive that died in 1971, into the Dursleys’ house that ghosts had inexplicable boundaries to the areas that they could visit. After a fair bit of experimentation, Harry realized that ghosts could only travel in areas that they had seen while alive. Ghosts like Maeve and Aelfred could easily move within the Dursleys’ house and pass through walls, since they had seen the unblemished countryside of the Middle Ages. Modern ghosts had a more difficult time with this, however. Even Jack, who had lived in Number Four, Privet Drive when he was alive, was unable to pass through solid walls, although he could pass through closed doors. The difference was that Jack had never seen the spaces occupied by the inside of the walls and therefore couldn’t move through them. It had been dreadfully confusing to Harry for a while, but he had found himself getting used to it.

By the time that Harry and Snape had exited the train and Snape had hailed a cab, Harry’s group of ghosts was about two-thirds of the size it had been. They flew in a mass around the cab, as only a few could fit inside the vehicle. Harry had to stifle a laugh upon seeing Mairead’s head sticking out of Snape’s arm. This confirmed without a doubt that Snape either really couldn’t see the ghosts, or he had superhuman acting abilities. Harry wouldn’t have been able to ignore a spirit sitting in essentially the same spot at him.

Eventually, after the sun sunk behind the horizon and the sky turned to the darkening blue of twilight, Snape and Harry arrived at what seemed to be their destination: a dingy pub on Charing Cross Road. Harry wondered what they were doing here, but was loath to pester Snape with his questions.

Harry stood outside the door for a moment and peered up at the sign in the dim half-light. “The Leaky Cauldron,” he murmured to himself, and then followed an impatient Snape inside the murky interior.

The first thing he noticed as he entered was not the strange spoon that stirred the tea by itself in a man’s glass, nor the strange mix of trousers and _robes_ that the patrons were wearing. He didn’t notice the odd words bandied about ( _Muggle, Obliviator, Unspeakable_ ) or the proliferation of those sticks that Snape had waved around. No, Harry first noticed the disturbing fact that _none_ of his friends could enter the pub.

He had felt their presence disappear as soon as he entered the pub, but it took him several moments to process the lack of the familiar, comforting horde of spirits around him. He halted in the entryway of the Leaky Cauldron and turned back towards the door. His friends stood in front of it, looking at the pub sadly. Harry felt panic beginning to bubble in his stomach. He couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t accompanied by at least one ghost, and his sudden aloneness coupled with the utter strangeness of the world he was entering threw him off-balance. His previous composure deserted him for a few moments and he began to tremble, struggling not to run back to his companions. Had none of them gone in this strange little pub in life? Harry supposed it made sense, since the wizards and witch would probably have termed his friends “Muggles.” This explanation didn’t lessen his terror in the least, though.

“Boy!” Snape’s impatient call cut through Harry’s panic. Automatically, he turned towards the professor, fear and insecurity swimming in his bright green eyes. He met Snape’s dark eyes slowly and watched as Snape expression shifted from irritation to a strange contemplation.

Harry realized suddenly what he must look like, all his emotions displayed on his face for the world to see. Quickly, he took a breath, steadying himself and carefully smoothing out his features. Self-consciously, he tugged on his fringe, ensuring that it was still covering his forehead. Snape had seen his lapse and Harry couldn’t pretend otherwise. However, he could act like it had never happened, and simply regain his bearing.

It was with a great force of will that Harry stepped away from his friends and into this frightening new world. He refused to meet Snape’s eyes as they wove through the pub to stop in front of a brick wall, which, with a few taps, opened into the most enchanting marketplace that Harry had ever seen.

Torches lit the storefronts, bathing the glass in an amber light that glowed against the backdrop of the twilight sky. People in a variety of robes laughed and chattered to each other as they meandered down the street. Objects whizzed through the air, eliciting irate yells from disgruntled bystanders. The whole marketplace was awash with light and filled with cheerful sounds. Harry could do nothing but stand and stare in awe.

Eventually, as Snape began to thread his way between the people and Harry dazedly followed, Harry began to notice the ghosts that lined the street. They hung back from the milling crowd and Harry was startled by the sheer _number_ of ghosts that floated amongst the shoppers. If he had needed additional proof that “magic” wasn’t “seeing ghosts,” then the throngs of unsatisfied spirits would have been enough to convince him.

Now that he thought about it, he could feel the “magic” here too. It buzzed against his skin, a steady, prickling pressure. He was already becoming accustomed to it, though. Unless people were going to be casting magic on him constantly, he should be able to stand it. _No_ , he corrected himself. He _was_ going to stand it. This new school couldn’t be worse than the Dursleys’ house, annoying sensation or no annoying sensation.

Harry was knocked out of his musings with a jolt when Snape stopped in front of a majestic marble building that was supported by several towering columns. Across the top of the building, it read “Gringotts Bank” in large, embossed letters and a steady stream of people was entering and exiting through the huge wooden doors under the sign.

Harry trailed after Snape into a spacious atrium that was crowded with a mass of people, including some strange little people with pointed faces and fangs that peeked from beneath their thin lips. He was surprised that he hadn’t considered the existence of non-human magical creatures before now. It made sense that in a land of magic, there would be “magical creatures”, if those fantasy movies (the ones that Dudley’s friend Malcolm liked to watch) were to be believed.

Harry noticed that he was gawping at the short little creatures, and, cursing himself for his rudeness, recovered his composure (something that was quite difficult to do, as he still felt very wrong-footed without his friends). He trailed after Snape as he joined one of the long lines that waited for a turn with one of the creatures. The desk it sat behind was beautifully ornate and imposingly towering. Harry stifled a snort of laughter when he realized that the desk made the creature look about two times Harry’s height, a distinct contrast to the creature’s true stature.

Snape broke the silence that had settled between them. “Goblins,” he stated.

“What?” Harry asked, perplexed.

Snape glanced at him disdainfully. “What, did you think that the bankers here were human? They are goblins.” He sneered. “You will let me do the talking, understand? There are particular quirks in goblin society of which you are unaware, and I do not want a diplomatic incident on my hands.”

Harry nodded. “Yes sir,” he added, just in case Snape was like Vernon and liked his affirmations verbal.

They waited as the line steadily shrunk, and as time passed, Harry became more and more anxious. Snape’s bearing indicated that he was becoming more frustrated the later the wait stretched, and that indicated nothing good for Harry’s health. Finally, they approached the desk, and Snape began a brisk and utterly incomprehensible discussion with the teller. It was all in English, but strange words like “galleon” and “sickle” were being bandied about, and Harry felt like he was floundering, completely out of his depth.

Snape and the goblin finished their discussion with a last, brief snap of pleasantries, and Snape quickly strode towards the large doors at the back of the atrium, Harry hurrying behind him. In front of the doors, a shorter-than-average goblin tapped his foot impatiently, and curtly ordered them into the cart that was located behind the doors.

The trip through the bowels of the bank was brief, but terrifying. Although Harry wanted to scream and grab onto the cart with all of his might, he refrained from showing his weakness. The fact that he passed hordes of goblin-ghosts that swirled around the tracks didn’t help much. He couldn’t definitively say that they died from cart accidents (since they could have wandered here from someplace else), but the implication was chilling.

Finally, the cart ground to a halt outside of a towering metal door. Harry exited the cart quickly, accidentally bumping into the goblin on his way out. The touch was relatively innocuous, but the goblin _flinched_ away from Harry.

Harry immediately backed away and uttered a stuttered apology, hoping that he hadn’t just accidentally found one of those quirks in goblin society that Snape had told him about. He didn’t want to offend the goblins and definitely didn’t want Snape angry at him.

“It is fine, Potter,” Snape harshly interrupted his incoherent stuttering. “I believe that our goblin guide should be the one apologizing for the insult, isn’t that right, Griphook?” he silkily inquired with a bite underlying his words.

The goblin’s lip twitched up into a sneer before his features smoothed into impassivity and he bowed to Harry. “I apologize for the insult, Mr. Potter,” he bit out. “You simply… startled me.”

After Harry had bowed back to Griphook in acknowledgement of the apology, Snape curtly gestured to the door, which Harry reasoned probably guarded a vault of some sort, considering that this was a bank.

Snape handed a key to Griphook and the goblin snatched it out of his hand and retreated to the vault. After a few moments, the door swung open, revealing piles of gold and silver. Harry tried to hide his astonishment, but he couldn’t stop his mouth from dropping open.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Snape’s voice cut through his haze of disbelief. “Go collect your money, you idiot b-… dunderhead.”

Harry blinked up at Snape in shock. “This… this is mine?” he stammered out. This was too good to be true, and suddenly, his mind snapped into the patterns that Aelfred and his already-passed friend Colm had instilled into him.

He had let his mind drift after his separation from his friends, and he cursed himself silently. He needed his wits about him, since he could no longer attribute benevolent intentions to the people he came into contact with. He also had to manage his image better, and not simply act in a way that would carry the least chance of Snape getting angry at him. He had fallen into old instincts ever since the pub, and promised himself that he wouldn’t continue.

First, where was he? Gringotts Bank, run by goblins that possibly didn’t like touch, maybe specifically _his_ touch. The bank was located in… he vaguely remembered a sign… D-something alley. Dragon… no. Diaron… no. Diagon, yes, that was right! Diagon Alley, which was some type of wizarding marketplace that you accessed from the Leaky Cauldron.

Second, what were wizards? They couldn’t see ghosts and neither could goblins, presumably. (Was he the only one?) The wizards’ “magic” tingled on his skin and was mildly uncomfortable. The goblins hadn’t, as far as he had seen, used magic.

Third, what motives could this “Snape” fellow have to persuade him that he had a vault full of money? If he had money, he wouldn’t have been treated like a slave at the Dursleys; therefore, this was a hoax. Was “Professor Snape” this man’s real name and profession? Harry resolved to keep a closer watch on the situation. He couldn’t let his longing for a magic school undermine his common sense.

“It is your money, foolish child.” Snape’s chiding snapped Harry back to reality. Harry did the best he could to conceal the suspicions that wanted to be expressed in increased physical distance and sideways looks. “Did you think that your parents would leave you destitute?” Snape continued, apparently unaware of Harry’s watchfulness.

Harry shrugged, a safe response. “I wouldn’t know,” he replied neutrally. Snape’s lips twisted into a sneer as he gestured for Harry to follow Griphook into the vault, obviously not impressed with Harry’s answer.

Cautiously, Harry wound his way through the piles of coins, dumping several handfuls into a bag provided by Griphook. When Harry saw Snape nod in satisfaction out of the corner of his eye, he ceased putting money into the bag and quickly exited the vault before the goblin, so that unpleasant Griphook couldn’t seal him inside the vault, or something. At the goblin’s request, Harry handed him a sickle for the bag, and then Griphook closed the large iron door again.

After all three of them had piled back into the cart, Griphook turned to Snape. “Would you like to pick up the --”

“No,” Snape _snarled_ , and Harry resolutely forced himself not to flinch. “Not with the boy here. Take us back to the atrium.” He paused for a moment and then disdainfully tacked on, “Please.”

As the cart wound its way back to the entrance of Gringotts, Harry reflected on Snape’s secrecy. The evidence of foul play was building up. First, the vault that Snape claimed belonged to Harry, but couldn’t possibly, and second, the mysterious exchange that Harry had just heard.

As soon as the cart ground to a stop, Snape exited quickly, signaling Harry to follow him. They left Gringotts and entered a swirling maelstrom of shoppers and merchandise.

The next few hours flew by. Harry, for the first time, had more than enough money for everything he needed, and resolved to buy the best quality products that he could. His new trunk for school was sturdy and well-made, with expansion charms on every compartment and a second layer that housed a library with at least ten bookshelves. He followed Snape’s advice in the apothecary, figuring that, as the Potions teacher, Snape would know what was needed for Hogwarts. Whatever this man’s endgame was, Harry decided that it probably wouldn’t affect the type and amount of potions ingredients that he had to buy.

Knowing quite well the impact of clothes on good first impressions, Harry made sure that his school robes were high quality and bought additional casual robes as well. He didn’t want to offend any wizards that he came into contact with by flouting wizarding fashion rules. However, the clothing store, Madame Malkin’s, didn’t carry undergarments, and Harry resigned himself to wearing Dudley’s old boxers until he could save enough money to buy some of his own. He had some money left over from the secondhand clothing scheme, but that was “emergency money” and Harry didn’t count the state of his underwear as an emergency.

It didn’t take too long to gather the various odds and ends that comprised the rest of his list, like a telescope and set of scales. Harry decided, as they passed the Magical Menagerie, that although a pet would be wonderful, there was no way he could hide it from the Dursleys. He passed by the store regretfully.

Harry still had more than half of his money left by the time he and Snape made it to the bookstore, Flourish and Blotts. Glancing at his list, he noticed that the only thing left to buy besides textbooks was a wand, which he assumed was the stick that he had seen Snape and others using to do magic. Thinking about his other purchases, he estimated that a wand would run to about ten galleons at most, but he couldn’t be sure. Frustrated, he cast his mind about for a solution. He needed to know how much money he could spend in the bookstore, since it was imperative that he buy more books than were on the list. None of them looked like they covered the basic facts of the wizarding world, something he would desperately need if he wanted to live inconspicuously in this new culture.

Night had fallen on the marketplace, and Harry couldn’t make out the signs in other windows, and the jabbering of passing people wasn’t helping at all. Finally, Harry turned to his only source of information, however unreliable and compromised it might be.

“Professor Snape?” he asked, and the man turned to look at him, a faint expression of surprise on his face before it settled back into impassivity. “How much does a wand cost?”

“Anywhere between five and nine galleons,” Snape replied. “Most wands cost around seven galleons.”

Harry thanked him and ducked into Flourish and Blotts before Snape could stop him. Quickly, he rifled through his money bag, pouring twenty galleons into his pockets for a wand and emergency money while at Hogwarts. The rest of the money, he decided, would be spent on books. He had enough space in his new trunk.

Harry was able to collect all the books on his list, as well as several introductory books for subjects not covered on his list, like Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. He found several gems that would be invaluable, like a beginner’s treatise on magical theory and a thin, leather-bound book that was intended for young “pureblooded” children and explained the etiquette of the upper class.

He also found a section of obviously “antique” books. They weren’t sorted by subject, but were all very old, many written in Old English, Middle English, and Latin. There were a few in languages Harry didn’t know, but he found a few interesting books that he could read, including an extremely comprehensive and fascinating treatment of Runes in Old English. It covered Anglo-Saxon runes (which was positively _modern_ , Harry realized, for its time), Elder Futhark, and their uses in runic magic. The modern version was very lacking, Harry discovered, and put _Ancient Runes_ back on its shelf while he kept the Old English version.

As he was browsing through the section on Potions, he felt more than heard a presence approach from behind him. He stiffened and wheeled around to come face-to-face with Professor Snape. The professor lifted one thin eyebrow at Harry’s twitchy behavior before stretching out a hand and lifting a thin book off of the shelf behind him. With a hint of sneer on his lips, he dropped the book into Harry’s hands. Finally shaking off his stunned paralysis, Harry gripped the book and read the title.

“ _Ingredients and Methods for the Beginner_. Sir?” Harry said with a touch of confusion.

“A valuable text for the first-time potions student, Mr. Potter,” Snape explained. “Many students are unwilling to dedicate enough time to understanding the basics behind potions. I do not have time to cover that material in class, and therefore have not designated it as a required text. However,” he said contemplatively, glancing over Harry’s mounds of books, “it seems as if you might find it useful.”

For several moments, Harry was speechless. This man was an enigma! He seemed have an ulterior motive, but was actively promoting Harry’s gathering of knowledge about this world, which would remove Harry from his sphere of influence. Right now, Snape was his only source of information about wizards, but these books, including the one that Snape had just handed him, would relegate Snape to the position of simply “teacher,” a much less important role than “guide” or “mentor.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said sincerely. Snape curtly nodded to Harry in acceptance, but it seemed that a little of his icy composure had thawed. Harry caught a glint of satisfaction in the man’s eyes as he strode towards the section that housed academic journals.

Harry surveyed the books strewn about him and decided that this was enough for one load. He would buy these books and store them in his trunk’s library before embarking on his second objective: to find some information about his own ability. He felt that his purchases would give him enough insight into traditional wizarding magic, and he was curious if anyone else saw ghosts like he did.

Twenty minutes later found him frustrated in the Magical Theory section of the store. He couldn’t find anything about pseudo-magical abilities or even anything related to death or ghosts, except for several chapters about a strange phenomenon in which wizards would leave their imprints on the world after death. Harry wondered what these imprints would look like.

It was getting later and Harry knew that he didn’t have long before the Dursleys would become suspicious. Professor Snape was still browsing the journals, but Harry observed that he was quickly losing interest. Harry was about to give up the search when a voice piped up from behind him. “What are you looking for?”

Harry jumped, severely startled by the presence that he hadn’t detected. He should have heard the person’s approach, but he hadn’t. Frightened, he whirled around and found a lanky boy staring at him oddly. Self-consciously, Harry cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he said with a small, lopsided grin. “You startled me.”

“Yes, well,” the boy rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, “I probably should have announced myself.”

“It’s fine.” Harry shrugged, dismissing his companion’s non-apology. He contemplated for a moment if it was a good idea to tell this unknown boy about his search, but decided that if he didn’t mention ghosts, then it would be fine to talk to him.

“I’m looking for a book about different magical abilities that aren’t typical magic,” Harry said, “but I can’t find _anything_ about them.”

The boy’s face immediately closed off and he stepped closer to Harry. Harry resisted the urge to back away.

“There’s a reason for that, genius,” the boy hissed quietly. “A lot of the non-traditional abilities have been labeled ‘dark’. You’re not going to find a book about them in Diagon Alley!”

“Where can I find one then?” Harry’s voice was just as soft as his companion’s.

“In Knockturn Alley.” The boy glanced around the store and his eyes alighted on Professor Snape. His expression turned faintly calculating, and Harry congratulated himself on his caution. Living people weren’t to be trusted – this visit to the wizarding world simply supported this maxim.

“You know what,” the boy said with a tone that caused all of Harry’s defenses to rise. “I could such a book for you and you could pay me for it when we get to Hogwarts. How does that sound?”

Harry was loath to take any sort of favors or advice from the boy, but he recognized that this might be his only chance to acquire a book on whatever his ability was. He was certain that this boy had an ulterior motive… but decided that playing along was in his best interest for now. He could always reevaluate later.

“Sure,” he agreed with a smile. “Thanks.”

The boy was about to reply when a thin, mousy-haired man with slightly worn robes hurried over to the pair of boys.

“Theodore Nott!” the man admonished harshly. “What have I told you about wandering off?” Without waiting for a response, he continued, “Do you have your books? Good. Come, child. We still have many errands!”

Theodore waved at Harry with an embarrassed air as his guardian pulled him out of the store. Harry waved back, bemused at his companion’s sudden departure. Suddenly, he felt the approach of his own custodian at his back.

“Done yet, Potter?” the man sneered, and Harry felt that something about his recent interactions with the lanky boy had disturbed the professor. He chanced a glance up at the man’s face, but it didn’t seem like he was too angry, simply… worried.

The two of them made their way out of the store and onto the dark street. Harry spared a moment to worry about the time, but quickly pushed his misgivings aside. He was going to get his _wand_. What was more important than that?

The wand store was not quite was Harry was expecting. The exterior was plain, with only a sign stating that this building stored wands made by a man called Ollivander. The interior was dark and dingy, and the proprietor was more than a little creepy. Harry didn’t even want to know how the grey-haired man with piercing eyes knew his name or why he remembered “every wand he’d ever sold”.

Harry was a little relieved that he didn’t have to choose his own wand, since he was unsure of the qualities of a good wand, but Ollivander’s selection process seemed somewhat strange to him.

They had begun with a 9½ inch willow wand with a dragon heartstring core. When Harry flicked it, the glass in the windows disintegrated. Ollivander had repaired it with a flick of his own wand, but really, it was very strange. Was that a normal reaction to an ill-fitting wand? Regardless, it was the first piece of magic Harry had ever done, discounting the talking to the dead, which apparently wasn’t even magic.

“Here you are,” Ollivander said, holding out the twentieth wand for Harry to try. “Acacia and phoenix feather, 13 inches, quite springy.”

With reluctance, Harry took the wand and flicked it. The scent of decaying leaves filled the air, and Harry had to stifle the urge to gag. At least it wasn’t as violent as previous attempts had been, just mildly disgusting. Ollivander seemed excited about it, and immediately dove back into the labyrinth of shelves, leaving Snape to take out his own wand to clear the air.

“How much longer are you going to be, Potter?” he muttered. Harry realized that it was a rhetorical question, so didn’t answer, although he completely concurred with the sentiment behind the inquiry.

“Aha!” Ollivander cried from within the maze of shelves. “Let’s give this one a try!” He hurried back to Harry and Snape, holding out a wand. “Holly and Phoenix feather. Perhaps this one will do it!”

Harry’s flick resulted in the curtains disintegrating. Ollivander snatched the wand from his hand, and withdrew into the shelves again, muttering to himself. Harry caught a fragment of it.

“Not compatible with the three cores, and Acacia… hmmm,” Ollivander murmured. “Perhaps…” He trailed off and drifted to the very back of the store. Several long minutes later, he returned with a long box that contained an unusual wand. The wood was light, but several dark veins ran from the tip of the wand to spiral down towards the handle. Curious, Harry picked it up and flicked it with a well-practiced movement.

It felt… indescribably perfect. Cold, ghostly chills ran down his arms, like a hundred spirits were touching him, and the chill flowed out of his body and into the wand. The tip of the wand spat out a few sparks as inky black tendrils floated out of the tip and curled around Harry’s ankles and legs. The wood in his hands fairly _purred_ with contentment and Harry closed his eyes, relishing the feeling of _homecoming_.

He almost missed Ollivander’s next words. “Interesting, very interesting,” the wandmaker said, tilting his head to stare at Harry with those piercing grey eyes. “Yew, 13 inches, remarkably springy, with a core of thestral hair. Its remarkable feature is its connection to death.” His eyes flicked up to Harry’s forehead, which was covered by his long fringe. “Much like that scar of yours.” Harry was puzzled by this statement, but felt Snape tense behind him.

Harry desperately wanted to ask what Ollivander meant about his scar, but the man hadn’t done anything to prove his trustworthiness. Even if the man wouldn’t use his question against him, Harry wouldn’t be able to trust the man’s answer. Harry paid the seven galleons requested without a sound, stored the rest in his trunk along with his wand, and then exited the store with Snape close behind.

“Do you have a good grip on your trunk?” Snape asked suddenly.

“Yes,” Harry answered cautiously, unconsciously adjusting his grip and tightening his hold.

“Good,” Snape said, and then with a sudden movement, grasped Harry’s forearm tightly.

Before Harry could react, he felt himself being compressed, and _swords_ pierced his skin. The magic burned around him, and he would have screamed if he had lungs or a mouth. He wondered, vaguely, when the torture would stop.

Suddenly, he felt his feet hit solid ground, and he could scream again. Hands, demanding and gentle simultaneously, ran over his body as the burning slowly ebbed from his bones. Finally, he quieted and bit his lip harshly as the last vestiges of magic flowed into the ground. He cautiously opened his eyes to see an alley nearby the ice cream parlor, and the worried and terrified visage of Professor Snape.

He had seen the man look disdainful, surprised, and irritated, but the sheer amount of horror on Snape’s face took him aback. He realized that the man’s hands were still secured around him as he lay half on the filthy cement of the alley and half on Snape’s black-clad lap. He flinched, his first impulse to pull away pounding through his veins, but he caught another look at Snape’s face and thought that he had never seen a living person so frightened for his well-being. He reflected, as he hazily drifted into a half-sleep state in Snape’s lap, that it was nice to have the sentiment directed towards him.

Eventually, he felt the man’s heartbeat slow, and two strong hands cradled his body as Snape rose to his feet. “Can you walk?” the man inquired, his voice heavy with concern and some unidentifiable emotion.

“Yes,” Harry croaked, and started in surprise at his own voice. It must have been hoarse from the screaming.

Carefully, Snape lowered him to the ground, checking that Harry was steady on his feet before picking up the handle of Harry’s trunk and handing it to him. Harry didn’t know what had just happened, but was fairly sure that the cause wasn’t Snape. He didn’t doubt that the man could be a good actor, but few people could fake pounding hearts. Snape seemed genuinely distraught at Harry’s distress, and despite himself, Harry began to trust Snape a little, even though the man had some sort of hidden agenda.

Perhaps it was about magic? The piercing, burning sensation he had felt was like the tingling brush of magic, magnified a thousand times. Yes, Harry decided, it was probably because of the magic, not Snape himself.

“That was called apparition,” Snape said, the echoes of his worry still dancing in his eyes. His voice was soft and nonthreatening. “If anyone asks if you would like to side-along apparate, tell them _no_.” His dark eyes bore into Harry’s bright green ones. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, and then added on for good measure: “No side-along apparition.”

“Very good,” Snape praised. Harry was faintly surprised. He didn’t think that Snape was one to complement people.

“Now,” Snape continued, his voice regaining its previous brisk, snappish quality. “I noticed that you bought a book entitled _Modern Magical History_. The twentieth chapter will make certain things much clearer. Read it before school starts, Potter. If you have any questions,” he briefly riffled through his pockets, quickly extracting a sheet of the strange, thick parchment that Harry had purchased at Diagon Alley, “you will write them on this parchment.” He touched his wand to the page, muttered under his breath, and then tore it in half, handing one half to Harry and storing the other in his pockets. “Understood?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, sir.” He stowed his own half in the pockets of his dress pants. He wouldn’t use it, of course. Asking questions led to nothing good.

“Here,” Snape handed him another piece of paper, this one small, rectangular, and thick. “This is your ticket on the Hogwarts Express. It departs from King’s Cross station, Platform 9¾.”

“Sir?” Harry inquired confusedly. “Nine and three-quarters?” Instantly, he realized what he had done and berated himself fiercely. Just because he was beginning to trust the pale, sneering man didn’t mean he could relax his guard and betray his ignorance! Every word said was a potential weapon to be used against him!

Oblivious to Harry’s internal chiding, Snape answered, “The platform is located between platforms 9 and 10. One of the support columns is an entrance to the platform. All that is required is that you walk through it. Any more questions?”

Harry shook his head. “No, sir.”

Snape decisively nodded his head once. “I will be off then, Mr. Potter.” After a few beats, he added, “Be careful.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said. “I will.” Since it did no harm to be grateful, he continued, “Thank you for your time and advice, sir.”

Snape tilted his head in acknowledgement, and then, with a pop, was gone.

Quickly, mindful of the very late hour, Harry darted out of the alleyway and sprinted with his trunk to the park. He changed back into Dudley’s hand-me-downs, storing his nice clothes, his piece of parchment, and his ticket inside his trunk.

As he approached the Dursleys’ house, he slowed down and cast his mind about for a place he could hide his trunk, since it was too big to go unnoticed in the cupboard. Finally, he remembered that the shed in the Dursleys’ backyard was filled with so much junk that even if any of the Dursleys went digging through the shed for something, they would disregard the trunk as garbage that no one had thought to throw away. Using the bobby pins that he had pilfered from the girls at school and hidden under a flowerpot for this purpose, he picked the padlock and hid his trunk in the farthest reaches of the shed. Satisfied that the Dursleys would never find it, he crept back inside the house and prayed that no one had noticed that he was missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the second chapter of four! And then there will be a very long wait as summer and school happen... I hope some of you are in for the long haul... Please review!!


	4. Of Trains and Boats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are trains and boats, both of which have annoying schoolchildren on them.

Harry woke early the next morning to the frantic questions of Maeve and the rest of his horde of ghosts. Aelfred was apparently still keeping watch at the entrance of the Leaky Cauldron. Harry sent off one of his ghosts to tell Aelfred that he was safe at home, and to apologize for frightening him.

Once Aelfred arrived, Harry recounted his adventures in Diagon Alley, dwelling on his experiences with Professor Snape and his encounter with the lanky boy in Flourish and Blotts. He hashed out possible motives for both of them, and told his friends about the niggling sense that there was something strange about his scar. Ollivander had alluded to it, and it intrigued him.

“I am unsure about Professor Snape,” Aelfred said, and the rest of the ghosts nodded in agreement. “He seems to be concerned with your well-being, but he is the sort of man that plays multiple games at once. Just because he worries about you does not mean that one of his machinations will not interfere with something you have planned. He is a complex man. Do not trust too soon, Harry.”

“I won’t,” promised Harry. “I don’t trust either him or Theodore Nott, although Snape has at least demonstrated concern towards me. I think I need to read that chapter in _Modern Magical History_ that Snape suggested, as well as the magical theory and etiquette books that I bought.”

However, Harry put off his plans for pre-Hogwarts education until he was sure that his relatives hadn’t noticed his absence.  He waited in his cupboard, conversing quietly with his ghostly companions, until he heard Petunia’s shrill voice ordering him to begin breakfast.

It seemed that his relatives hadn’t realized that he had been gone for hours. He performed his chores on autopilot, listening to the chatter of his friends. After he cooked dinner for the Dursleys, he slipped out to the park to quietly play his flute with Maeve. Gradually, the sky darkened from a russet orange to a deep blue. Silently, Harry snuck back to the Dursleys, and, making sure that no one was in sight, picked the padlock on the shed and extracted a pile of books from his trunk, including _Modern Magical History, Ingredients and Methods for the Beginner_ (the potions book that Snape had recommended), _A Guide for the Pureblooded Child: How to Comport Oneself in Polite Society_ , _An Overview of Magical Theory_ , _Hogwarts: A History_ ,and all of his course books.

His heart pounding in his ears, Harry slunk back into the house to deposit the books in his cupboard, with his ghosts keeping watch to ensure that the Dursleys didn’t unexpectedly appear. When he made it to his room without incident, Harry let out the breath that he’d been holding. He settled the books down in a shadowy corner of the cupboard, and with his flashlight, and surrounded by ghosts, he began to read the twentieth chapter of the history book, which was entitled: “The-Boy-Who-Lived.”

As, outside, the last vestiges of light left the sky, Harry let the book fall from his nerveless fingers. Never could he have guessed…. He began to laugh, broken, helpless laughs that he stifled with his threadbare pillow. Tears soaked his cheeks as he hysterically purged all of the sorrow for the parents he had never known. Killed by a madman, and he survived. He had never known. His scar, always an unwanted irregularity, something that drew attention towards him, took on a more sinister meaning.

Not for the first time, he wondered why the ghosts of his parents had never come to find him. Surely in their last moments, they would have looked at their poor, orphaned son and wished desperately to watch him grow up… but no, something must have stopped them. Perhaps they hadn’t realized that Harry could see their spirits. Perhaps they had never seen the Dursleys’ house. The alternative, that they went to their deaths perfectly content with leaving him alone, was too painful to contemplate.

Slowly, tears still leaking from his eyes, Harry fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. He awoke the next morning to Maeve’s cheerful singing, and the days began to fall into a pattern. He would wake up and work on Aelfred’s masterpiece, play the flute, or assist another of his ghostly friends. Then, he would cook breakfast and do chores until dinner time, at which point he would cook dinner and then retreat quickly to his cupboard. After sleeping for several hours, he would wake again and read one of his books, intensely studying it. Just before dawn, he would catch a couple more hours of sleep before the schedule started all over again. It was a comfortable routine, and the only deviation occurred on his birthday, when, in his customary ritual, he quietly celebrated with his ghosts in a strange mixture of old Irish, old English, and modern birthday celebrations at midnight.

By the time August 31st had rolled around, Harry had read his etiquette book, _Ingredients and Methods for the Beginner_ , _Modern Magical History_ , and _Hogwarts: A History_ in their entirety, and had skimmed through his magical theory book as well as all of his course texts. Harry predicted that Potions would be his favorite class, as he found the subtle and complex interactions outlined in his book to be fascinating. Of course, it didn’t hurt that the Potions teacher was a known quantity, and had proved to be concerned with Harry’s welfare.

Before midnight on the first of September, Harry said his heartfelt goodbyes to his companions. He would see most of them in the summer, hopefully, although he didn’t plan on coming back here. The horde of ghosts decided that the ones who could exist in King’s Cross station would watch the entrance to 9¾, and they would all discuss living arrangements when Harry returned from school. Harry didn’t want to abandon his ghosts, but coming back to the Dursleys was out of the question.

The group of them also decided that Harry should reveal himself to the ghosts at Hogwarts. They could assist him in navigating the wizarding world, and also, Maeve pointed out, Harry could continue helping the dead while at school. Wizards, she said, need as much help as Muggles. Harry agreed. He had a weakness for ghosts and their problems.

On September 1st, Harry made sure that his relatives were all asleep, and then snuck out of his cupboard, arms laden with books and one hand clutching his wooden flute. He quickly broke into the shed and packed everything securely away into his trunk.

He changed into his good clothes inside the shed (no sense in making a bad impression on people) before he slunk back into the Dursleys’ house and left a note on the dining room table. It read:

> _Dursleys –_
> 
> _I’m sure that you’ll be glad to know that you’ll never have to deal with me again. I’m off to Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, so the cupboard is free now. I know you’ll be thankful for the extra space._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Harry_

 

With that taken care of, Harry set off toward King’s Cross station, the rest of his muggle money in his pockets. Harry was able to catch the earliest train from Surrey to London easily enough, and when he arrived, he secured a cab to King’s Cross without any difficulty. As soon as he arrived at the station, he rummaged around in his trunk for the ticket. He stowed the piece of thick parchment, as well as a few galleons, in his pockets.

He noticed that it was only nine o’clock in the morning, so he took his Ancient Runes text out of his trunk as well. He found the portal to Platform 9¾ handily, and, with a few awkward glances around to make sure that no one was looking, stepped into the stone column.

It wasn’t quite as painful as apparition, but that wasn’t saying much. The magic stabbed into his skin as he passed through the barrier, and he held in his scream with an effort. As soon as he was on the other side, he took several deep, heaving breaths. His body was burning, but the sensation was slowly fading. At least he was able to stay on his feet this time.

There were several ghosts on the platform, but Harry paid them no mind. The train obviously hadn’t arrived yet, because the tracks were empty. A few people milled about on the platform, uncertainty on their faces. Harry decided that they must be from the Muggle world, and their children had been declared wizards. He vaguely wondered if they were happy about it.

Pushing his musings to the back of his mind, Harry found an empty bench and slumped into in, reflexively smoothing his bangs to cover his apparently-famous scar. Settling himself for a long wait, he flipped to the beginning of his Runes text, the one that he had found in the antique section of Flourish and Blotts.

It was a fascinating subject, Harry decided when he had finished the first chapter, the same sort of fascinating as Potions. Each rune had its own properties, but they changed depending on the other runes surrounding it, the phase of the moon when it was carved, the arithmetical web that it was ensconced in, and a variety of other factors. Harry had realized partway through the first chapter that his book only scraped the surface of the subject, and vowed to spend his free time researching Runes in the library. He acknowledged that he _was_ uniquely qualified for this subject; after all, he had been using “runes” since he was old enough to write. Aelfred’s native tongue of Old English could be written using Futhorc runes, so Harry was already intimately familiar with a portion of the runes used in spellcraft.

When the clock struck ten, Harry started. He had been so caught up in his reading that he had forgotten about his surroundings. While that was a testament to the enthralling nature of Runes, it was also a potentially fatal mistake in this unfamiliar world. He had to remember that he no longer had the watchful eyes of his horde of ghosts at his disposal.

Several minutes later, Harry heard the faint sound of an approaching train. He memorized his current page number and stowed his text in his trunk. When the bright red “Hogwarts Express” ground to a stop, Harry was one of the first people aboard. Hefting his trunk, he moved toward the end of the train, attempting to find a compartment that would attract the fewest number of occupants. He had never been a social person, and wasn’t about to start at Hogwarts.

After getting settled in an remote compartment of the train, Harry continued to read his Ancient Runes text. He heard the sounds of laughing, talking, shouting children outside of his cabin, but since none of the children came to sit with him, he disregarded the noise. Eventually, he felt the train began to move, and the only sound that he could hear was the clacking of the train’s wheels against the track.

It was peaceful for a time. The side-to-side motion of the train lulled Harry into an uncharacteristic relaxation as he studied his text. He was missing his friends already, and the familiar Futhorc runes and the Old English of the book reminded him of days spent in the cupboard, painstakingly recording Aelfred epic poem. Absentmindedly, he traced the rune for “torch,” Kenaz, in the air. It was one of his favorites, and the first that the book introduced.

Unexpectedly, a light bloomed in front of him. Harry yelped and dropped his book, staring in fascination at the glowing ball of fire that hung in the air. When he stared carefully into the interior of it, he could see Kenaz traced out with the same inky black smoke that had come from his wand in Ollivander’s shop.

“Wow,” Harry murmured, transfixed. “ _I_ did that?”

He had known that runic magic was theoretically possible – it said so in his Magical Theory book. But it had implied that runic magic was difficult in this day and age, something about sublimating knowledge of the runes into the magical core and pathways and magical interference. It shouldn’t have been as simple as tracing a rune into the air.

Wait. Harry blinked in realization. He knew the runes, didn’t he? Not in the way a first time student of runes did, all memorized definitions and recitations. They were a part of his language, and he knew them like he knew himself. He understood where each _fit_ , where each was _needed_. Obviously, if he continued with this course of study (and looking at the glowing ball of fire, there was no way he _wouldn’t_ ) he would have a significantly more difficult time making ancient Chinese runes or Egyptian hieroglyphics work for him, but at least he was familiar with Anglo-Saxon runes.

Now, how to make the ball of fire go out? Harry puzzled over the dilemma, becoming increasing more worried as the minutes ticked past. Runic magic wasn’t a simple thing to explain away, especially since his knowledge of Futhorc came from dead people.

Harry finally remembered the abandoned book on the floor of the cabin. He flipped through the text until he came to a description of destroying a runic array. Very carefully, he followed the directions, assuming that his finger was the writing implement that the book described. Apparently he had skipped a few steps; unassisted runic conjuration was substantially more advanced than drawing a runic array and activating it on paper.

Lines drawn from nearby the ball of fire siphoned off Harry’s magic until only a few glowing embers were left. Finally, Harry drew his finger through the smoky outline of Kenaz and watched as the last vestiges of the inky black magic and the fire were dispersed.

Relieved, he slumped back in his seat. The tension from the past few minutes leaked from his body and he decided that he could continue reading the book later. It was the work of a few moments to open his trunk and stick the book into his library shelves. Then, since he had his trunk open, he quickly changed into a set of his new school robes. He retrieved his comb and brushed out his shoulder-length hair before tying it back with a nice piece of ribbon that he had nicked from a girl at his old school. He wasn’t sure if shoulder-length hair was acceptable here – it wasn’t really accepted on Privet Drive, but it had fit with the “juvenile delinquent” story that the Dursleys had told everyone. He wasn’t about to cut it, though. The long fringe that he arranged over his forehead meticulously was helpful in concealing his famous scar.

Finally satisfied with his appearance, he stowed his trunk away, and leaned back in his seat, content to watch the countryside as the train sped to Hogwarts. He allowed his mind to float, and reveled in this feeling of peace and security. It had been a long time since he had let himself be this unguarded.

He didn’t know how long he stared out the window, but it felt like only minutes before his reverie was interrupted by a knocking at his compartment’s door. With a huff of annoyance, Harry rose to his feet and slid the door open just enough to see who was knocking.

The bushy-haired girl on the other side didn’t even have the decency to wait until the door was fully open before she starting speaking.

“Have you seen a toad?” she asked, her voice grating on Harry’s nerves. “A boy lost one a couple of cars down.”

Harry opened the door a little wider and gave her his best icy smile. “I haven’t. Sorry.” His eyes scanned over her robes (an unflattering cut) and trailed over her untamed hair. Obviously not a pureblood. The manners, if nothing else, gave that away. She was most likely a Muggleborn, or a Mudblood, as his etiquette book had called them. Harry felt, however, that this was most likely a pejorative term and resolved not to use it.

Well, his wizarding etiquette knowledge obviously wasn’t going to be put to the test yet. He nodded at her, his mouth still compressed into a slightly upturned line that could possibly be interpreted as a smile. “I wish you the best of luck,” he said, allowing some of his distain to leak into his voice.

She was seemingly oblivious to the undertones of his statement and smiled at him in gratitude. Luckily though, she seemed to be able to recognize a dismissal when she heard it, and with a parting, “Thanks!”, she made her way to the next compartment.

He was interrupted again, not long after, by the trolley, and after a curt exchange with the lady who seemed determined to sell him some sweets, he settled back down to watch the countryside again. However, the consuming feeling of peace and security that he had found before eluded him now, and with a huff of frustration, he flung open his trunk to retrieve his potions textbook.

As he was halfway through analyzing Graub's Rabbit Rejuvenating Elixir with the basic process outlined in _Ingredients and Methods for the Beginner_ , Harry felt the train begin to slow, and he quickly stowed his book in his trunk again. He peered out the window to try to get a glimpse of Hogwarts, but he must have been on the wrong side of the train, and all he saw was a forest of dark and foreboding trees. As he stared into the gloom, he swore that he could see something moving amongst the densely packed branches.

He should have been terrified of the forest, he knew. It was the stereotypical "evil forest" that appeared in movies, often complemented by hordes of terrifying creatures. But he felt an inexplicable pull toward the black mass of trees. It felt similar to the cool glide of the inky black tendrils of his runic magic, and completely different from the bright, fiery prickles of wizard magic that was already beginning to permeate the air.

As the train ground to a halt, Harry slid open the door of his compartment, and quietly observed the crowds of children exiting the train. None of them carried their luggage with them, and so, carefully, Harry entered the stream of traffic. He hoped that his trunk would get to his new quarters safely, and cursed himself for his lack of foresight. He should have kept his wand and his extra money in his robes. He couldn't allow himself to get sloppy now!

Finally, after what seemed an eternity in a press of bodies, Harry exited the stuffy train and emerged into the cool, crisp air. The sky was a deep black, and a lake stretched before him, its waters dark and calm. Soaring above the lake stood a castle, glittering with the light that streamed from its windows. Harry's breath caught in his throat. Hogwarts was beautiful, and for a few moments, he stood, stunned, unaware of anything but the magnificent castle.

A passing child jostled him, breaking his reverie. He snapped back to awareness, and reality reasserted itself. He noticed that the older children were making their way to a string of carriages pulled by grey, skeletal horses. The younger students were walking carefully toward the lake, following a booming voice that cried: "Firs' years over 'ere! Firs' years ta me!"

As Harry followed the rest of the first years toward the booming voice, he noticed the crowds of ghosts that glided by the milling children. There were more, far more, than he could have ever expected. In some popular and much-visited areas in the Muggle world, Harry had encountered hordes of ghosts, but Hogwarts’ grounds were swarming with more spirits than he had ever seen in one place. A sea of bright, milky-white bodies stretched out across the grounds and lake, and ended at the base of the towering castle. Harry knew that Hogwarts itself would probably be swarming with ghosts.

Finally, Harry reached the edge of the lake, where he found the origin of the voice. It was an enormous man, with long, matted hair and a shaggy beard. Although Harry knew that the man’s size had nothing to do with his temperament, he couldn’t help but shrink back from the gigantic man. A life with Uncle Vernon had taught him that big men could exert control over others simply by virtue of their size, and although this man had given no indications of such intentions, Harry imagined that this man’s slaps would hurt much more than Uncle Vernon’s.

Luckily, neither the giant nor the other children seemed to notice Harry’s apprehension. The scruffy man was directing the crowd of children into small dinghies. “No more ‘an four to a boat!” the enormous man told groups of students as he ushered them toward the lake. Harry was at the back of the group, and so found himself on the last boat with the bushy-haired girl he had met on the train, a nervous, chubby boy, and, coincidentally, the lanky boy that he had met at Diagon Alley, Theodore Nott.

The two of them seemed to recognize each other simultaneously. “Hey,” Theodore exclaimed. “It’s you!” He chuckled to himself. “I’ve been looking for you all over the train, and now here you are!”

Harry smiled at the personable boy, a twist of lips that was the closest he got to a smile among living people. “I’ve been told I’m a hard person to find.” Dudley had told him that, with a good deal more profanity, when Harry had managed to hide from him and his band of bullies for a straight week.

Theodore just laughed, the lights of Hogwarts glittering in his eyes. “You sure are,” he agreed. He quickly darted a glance at the other two people in their tiny craft, who were gaping at Hogwarts as the boats sailed toward the castle. “I bought it for you,” Theodore hissed under his breath. “Three galleons.”

Harry nodded in acceptance. “I’ll pay you back,” he confirmed. “Thank you,” he added, since gratitude never hurt.

Theodore just smiled back. “No problem. My name’s Theodore, by the way,” he said, raising his voice back to a normal volume and sticking out his hand. Harry shook it. “You can just call me Theo, though,” the boy continued, as the boats slowed and gently stopped at the base of a tall flight of stairs. “What’s your name?”

Harry was saved from answering by the gigantic man, who ushered the four children out of their boat and toward a matronly woman who stood at the top of the stairs. Harry barely stopped himself from wincing with pity when he saw her. A ghost, a young man who had probably died in his early thirties, was obviously attached to the woman, as the spirit hovered over her in the peculiar way characteristic of what Harry had termed “bound” ghosts.

“Bound” spirits were those ghosts whose dearest wish was to observe the rest of a living person’s life. Generally, parents and lovers were the most likely to bind to a person, but the level of devotion necessary on both sides for such a binding was so great that the phenomenon was relatively rare. One of Harry’s classmates in Primary School had a bound spirit (her mother), and Harry had encountered one of Vernon’s colleagues who was followed by the ghost of an old lover. Both Harry’s classmate and Vernon’s colleague had been miserable, decimated by the loss of the one who faithfully followed them. Last Harry had heard, Vernon’s colleague was attending therapy after a failed suicide attempt, and his classmate was withdrawn from public school and moved to a private school where the teachers could better attend to her debilitating grief.

This woman, however, carried herself with an air of self-confidence and assurance. Harry saw no hint of the crippling sadness that he had observed in others with bound ghosts. He found himself  already respecting her immensely.

Obviously, his opinion of her was shared by the rest of the first years. (Though not for the same reasons, Harry mused.) The chattering group of students quickly quieted under her impatient and intimidating aura.

“My name is Professor McGonagall,” the woman began, once all of the children had stopped talking. Her voice was clipped, with the barest hint of a Scottish brogue underlying the words. “And I am Professor of Transfiguration as well as the Head of Gryffindor House. Welcome to Hogwarts. The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly…”

Harry zoned out as McGonagall began to describe the sorting and the concept of houses. He was astonished at the number of first years who apparently hadn’t heard this information before. There were some, like the obviously pureblooded blond boy standing at the back of the group, who were bored to tears by McGonagall’s explanation of Hogwarts. However, others, like the chubby, nervous boy who had ridden in Harry’s boat, seemed to be hearing this for the first time. Did nobody research Hogwarts before coming here?

And the level of stupidity that some of these students were displaying was unbelievable. A red-headed boy was speculating that they would have to face a mountain troll based on some obviously inaccurate information his _brothers_ had provided and the bushy-haired girl from the train was wondering out loud if they were going to be tested on magic. If she had read so many books, why in the world did she not know about the Sorting Hat? It was clearly mentioned in _Hogwarts: A History_.

Suddenly, the chattering of the children abruptly cut off, and a couple of students even screamed. Intrigued and wary, Harry pivoted around, only to come face-to-face with a sight that made him want to scream as well. The bile rose in his throat, and he backed away a little, fighting down nausea.

They were ghosts, but twisted, _perverted_. He supposed, by the first years’ reactions to the spirits, that they could only see the semi-solid images that laughed and joked like they were _normal_ , living humans. The students probably couldn’t see the attached, crippled spirits that writhed in pain, their eyes vacant and dancing with insanity.

He could barely stand it. The fat monk was cheerfully declaring itself the ghost of Hufflepuff House, but Harry could see the true spirit of the Fat Friar, overlaid by the deceitful, carefree front that his classmates were interacting with.

“Deus misereatur,” the Fat Friar’s true spirit whispered brokenly, and Harry wished that Benedict had never taught him Latin. The… imprint, fake image, whatever it was that the rest of the wizards saw, was laughing, chuckling at one of its own jokes as the spirit pleaded for God’s mercy, and Harry was sure he was going to be sick.

He was saved by the arrival of Professor McGonagall, who shooed the tortured spirits away and herded the first years into the semblance of a straight line. Harry was curious, in a detached sort of way, about what House he would be sorted into, but he was still in shock, his mind filled with visions of the pleading, insane ghosts. He attempted to push the images away, to regain his normal calmness, but couldn’t get them out of his head. He noticed that Theodore Nott was staring at him in confusion and concern, and he realized that he must have a strange, shell-shocked expression on his face. With a herculean effort, he forced his mouth into a wan smile and nodded to Theo. Appeased, the boy nodded back before turning his interest to the magnificent chamber that they had just entered.

Harry took in the details of what must be the Great Hall without much interest. The ceiling was certainly impressive, but he was more fascinated by the crowd of ghosts that packed the Great Hall.

There were all sorts of spirits here from a variety of eras, although it was difficult to tell just from their clothes. It didn’t look like the fashion had changed much in the Wizarding world, but Harry heard the babble of Old English, Middle English, Latin, and Modern English. From what he could gather, the Sorting Ceremony was a source of great amusement to the ghosts that routinely stayed in the castle. He saw that a few of them were even serving as bookies, recording bets on which Houses certain students would be sorted into. He had to fight down a snort of laughter when he heard a nearby ghost state that Harry would be sorted into Gryffindor.

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” he murmured in Old English, causing the ghost to throw him a look of utter astonishment. He didn’t respond to it, but instead continued walking forward, a hint of a smirk playing about his lips. It wasn’t often he got to one-up a spirit, since they generally were _centuries_ older than he was.

It didn’t take long for Harry’s class to traverse the Great Hall, and before he knew it, Harry was listening to the strange ditty of a ratty old hat. The Wizarding world had some odd quirks, he reflected, as the first student (Abbott, Hannah) was sorted into Hufflepuff.

Harry waited patiently for his name to be called, but he was less interested in the sorting than in the horde of ghosts that filled the Great Hall. He wasn’t so distracted that he didn’t notice that the annoying girl from the train, apparently called Hermione Granger, was sorted into Gryffindor, and that Theodore Nott was (unsurprisingly) sorted into Slytherin. Harry had talked with the crafty boy for about a total of ten minutes, and he had already pegged Theo as a Slytherin. However sociable Theo was, Harry would have had to be an idiot not to notice the constant, calculating intelligence in Theo’s eyes.

A “Perks, Sally-Anne!” was sorted into Hufflepuff, and then McGonagall cleared her throat and called out: “Potter, Harry!”

Instantly, silence fell on the entire hall. The students and teachers paused in their chatter to stare intently at the group of unsorted first years. Harry noticed, though, that the ghosts continued to talk, a quiet, unconcerned babble. It was this comforting, underlying noise that gave him the strength to push forward and become the center of everyone’s attention.

Harry stared at the floor as he made his way to the stool and the hat. He didn’t want to meet the gazes. He just wanted these living humans to _stop_ , turn their attention to their bright, beautiful, corporeal world and leave him to his shadows.

Carefully, he perched on the rickety wooden stool, and Professor McGonagall dropped the hat onto his head, finally obscuring the silent, staring students from view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, one more chapter and then the hiatus. Thank you all for the lovely comments and the questions - most of them are answered in this chapter or the next, and if they aren't, they'll probably have an interesting conclusion later. (So thanks for reminding me!) I'm glad to know that I'll still have a reader or two, even after a summer hiatus! :)


	5. Of Hats and Speeches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a hat that gives speeches, and people that give speeches.

_Oh_ , Harry heard in the darkness. _Oh, you are fascinating, Mr. Potter._

_What?_ Harry thought. _Where is this voice coming from?_

_It is just me,_ the voice said. _The Sorting Hat. Forgive my intrusion, but it is necessary for sorting you into the correct House._

Now that the… hat mentioned it, Harry remembered that he had read about the creation of the Sorting Hat. “A complex piece of mind magic,” _Hogwarts: A History_ had called it. “Gryffindor and Ravenclaw had managed to create an entirely spell-born intelligence.”

_Hmmm_ , the hat said with a hint of amusement. _Flattering, and incorrect. Oh well, now is not the time to dwell on such thoughts. Your sorting, Mr. Potter._

_Well,_ the hat continued as Harry tried to process its cryptic statement. _There is a fair amount of bravery, but you would not fit in Gryffindor. A good Gryffindor tends to be a touch reckless, and you are far too methodical and controlled. Hufflepuff…_ the hat paused. _You are loyal to your friends, certainly, and not afraid of a spot of hard work. However, you are too distrusting of the living._

Harry’s heart leapt into his throat. _Please don’t tell anyone,_ he pleaded silently. _I don’t yet know what talking to the dead_ means _in the Wizarding world._

_I cannot tell anyone about your sorting, child_ , the hat reassured him. _But,_ its “tone” became tinged with bitterness, _I can tell you that your gift does not mean anything good in the Wizarding world. You are right to keep it secret._

_Now,_ it continued, seemingly oblivious to Harry’s rising panic at its statement. _Ravenclaw. You have a brilliant mind, and your love of books and knowledge is evident… but, no. For you, knowledge is the key to your friends’ happiness. You learn so that you can fulfill their final wishes… and so that you can gain more power over the living._

_For protection,_ Harry thought defensively.

_That was not a criticism, child,_ the hat chided. _Only the truth. Well, perhaps Slytherin…. You are not ambitious in the traditional sense, but even a deep desire to fulfill the wish of every ghost is an ambition, if an altruistic one. You want power, so that no one can ever hurt you again… and you never trust, not fully. You are cunning and canny, and although you are not a born politician, you know how to slip out of confrontations and subvert power plays. Child,_ the hat’s tone was laden with regret. _This will not be an easy path. But, the only house you would belong in is…_

“SLYTHERIN!”

Professor McGonagall removed the Sorting Hat from Harry’s head, and once again he was confronted with the sight of tables of shocked students. In contrast, the crowd of ghosts was humming with activity, a few ghosts collecting their virtual winnings from the bookies. Harry noticed that the ghost that he had spoken with before was smugly boasting that he “had known that boy was going into Slytherin. It was obvious, wasn’t it?” When Harry caught his eye, the ghost winked and Harry returned it with an imperceptible nod of his head.

Finally, the silence was broken by a lone person clapping. Harry realized that the sound was coming from behind him. He stood and turned, only to realize that Professor Snape was the lone clapper. The professor inclined his head to Harry and Harry, faintly remembering a passage in _A Guide for the Pureblooded Child_ that was entitled “Properly Accepting a Superior’s Regard”, bowed from the waist, one hand behind his back and the other made into a fist and pressed into his forehead.

Instantly, Slytherin House broke into enthusiastic clapping as well, although the rest of the Houses remained silent. Professor Snape’s mouth twitched, like he was suppressing a smile, as he gestured toward the Slytherin table.

As Harry descended the dais and made his way toward the rest of the Slytherins, the Great Hall burst into furious whispering. Some obnoxious boys at the Gryffindor table began loudly protesting Harry’s sorting. The older Slytherins’ lips curled into sneers and Harry noticed that more than a few wands were discreetly pointed at the Gryffindors.

As he approached the table, Theo caught his eye and smiled. He whispered to a heavyset girl next to him, and they both scooted to the side to make a place for Harry. Harry smiled gratefully at both of them as he dropped into the empty spot.

Theo opened his mouth, presumably about to make introductions, but at that moment, Professor McGonagall’s voice rang out over the Great Hall.

“Quiet!” she snapped. Under the force of her ire, the Great Hall quieted. “Mr. Potter’s sorting is none of your concern! If he wishes to be resorted,” she glared at the Gryffindor table, “then he can approach myself and Headmaster Dumbledore to request a resort. Now,” her voice softened.  “On with the sorting. Thomas, Dean!”

Once the last student, Blaise Zabini, was sorted into Slytherin, Headmaster Dumbledore rose from his chair and spread his arms to encompass the Great Hall. “Welcome,” he said, his voice warm and exuberant. “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!” He smiled genteelly at the crowd of students, a few of whom were gaping at him in disbelief. “Thank you!” he said, before seating himself.

As soon as Dumbledore took his seat at the High Table, food appeared along every table, accompanied by the unpleasant tingle of magic. Harry wasn’t quite sure what to do in this situation, so he followed the cues of Theo and the girl on the other side of him, loading up his plate with a variety of delicacies.

“So, Potter,” a blond boy on the other side of the table drawled.  “You’re in Slytherin.”

Harry absentmindedly stroked his now green-striped tie and inclined his head in acknowledgement of the point, unwilling to divulge anything about his sorting. As if he was about to provide strangers with personal information! He had to fight down a snort at the thought.

“What Draco means,” the heavyset girl on his left said, “is that everyone expected you to be sorted into Gryffindor.”

Harry couldn’t stop the sneer that formed at the thought of him in _Gryffindor_ , with the bushy-haired terror and the obnoxious whiners. He cursed himself at his lack of control and attempted to smooth out his expression, but apparently that was the correct response. Draco smirked and Theo chuckled. The girl grinned and the two large boys on either side of Draco mirrored her expression.

“Yeah,” Theo said, smiling broadly. “That’s how we feel about Gryffindor too. And,” he added snootily, “for the record, I did _not_ think you were going to be sorted into Gryffindor. Of course,” he frowned, “I didn’t know you were Harry Potter either.”

The blond boy scoffed. “You didn’t know he was Potter?”

“Look at his hair!” Theo protested. “You can’t see the scar! His bangs are too long!”

Draco tilted his head to the side. “He _does_ have an odd hairstyle,” he conceded.

“Is there something wrong with it?” Harry inquired curiously. He noticed that he had longer hair that any of the male students, but that the male teachers and many of the ghosts had much longer hair than he did.

“No, no,” Theo assured him. “Not at all. It’s just…” he searched for the right word.

“Old,” the girl on his left provided. “It’s like you stepped out of the last century.”

“Ah,” Harry said. There was an awkward pause in the conversation before Harry asked, “So, why did everyone think I was going to be sorted into Gryffindor? Except Theo,” he added at the boy’s noise of protest.

“Well,” Draco explained. “Your parents were both Gryffindors, of course. That sort of thing runs in families. For example, the Malfoy family has been in Slytherin for generations!”

“Yeah,” Theo snorted. “Because you disown anyone who isn’t!”

“Not true!” Draco snapped. “Great-Aunt Clytemnestra and Cousin Mizar were Ravenclaws, and we didn’t disown them!”

“Boys,” the girl snapped. “Shut up.” She turned to Harry. “It’s also,” she explained, “because you’re the Boy-Who-Lived, and the Dark Lord was in Slytherin, so….” She shrugged.

Harry grimaced. “That’s stupid,” he stated contemptuously. “I’d be an obnoxious fool because the… Dark Lord,” he made sure to call Voldemort what the girl had called him. He recalled, belatedly, that many of Voldemort’s supporters had come from Slytherin. These children were probably the sons and daughters of Death Eaters, Voldemort’s cohorts. He would have to step carefully. “Because the Dark Lord was in Slytherin?”

Theo smiled grimly. “Obviously,” he stated. “You didn’t conform to expectations.” His smile became a bit brighter. “Not even mine! I thought you’d go into Ravenclaw.”

“Why?” Draco inquired, before spearing a piece of roast beef with his fork.

“Well, when I first met Harry,” Theo explained, “he was amassing quite a selection of books.”

Harry began to panic. Would Theo reveal his Knockturn Alley purchase? He wouldn’t think so, but Theo knew these children better than he knew Harry, and seemed to be friends with them already.

He needn’t have worried.  “Including some stuff that’s not even on the curriculum,” Theo continued. “I thought Ravenclaw for sure!”

“Well,” the heavyset girl said. “I, for one, am glad that Potter’s a Slytherin. My name is Millicent, Millicent Bulstrode.” She gestured to the boys across the table.  “The runt is Draco Malfoy, ( _I am not a runt, Millie!)_ and his two goons are Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. You already know Theo, it seems.”

Harry nodded in turn to each of the boys. “Please,” he asked his new housemates, “call me Harry.”

All of them smiled at him brightly. The rest of dinner passed in lighthearted conversation. Harry met the rest of the first years as they all politely passed introductions down the table to Harry. He made sure to be exactingly polite, always conscious of the etiquette book that he had read. Theo and Draco fell into an argument about Quidditch that quickly became heated, only ending when Millicent rapped both of them on their knuckles with her knife.

Eventually, the platters of roast meat and delicate salads disappeared to be replaced by trays of desserts. Harry had never been allowed sweets at the Dursleys and had learned, through experiences during Primary School, that sickly sweet treats upset his stomach. He took several pieces of fruit from the neglected fruit bowl while he carefully listened to the conversations around him.

After the deluge of questions had subsided, Harry had been able to retreat into the background and simply immerse himself in the conversations of others. This had been one skill that Aelfred and Colm had never had to teach him; he was naturally able to divert others’ attention to such an extent that they would sometimes forget that he was there altogether. Harry had been worried about the effect that his new-found celebrity status would have on this skill, but, surveying the Slytherins, none of whom seemed to be aware of him, he was relieved that he could still fade into the shadows.

Finally, the desserts disappeared too, and Professor Dumbledore rose to his feet. The chatter of the Slytherins, as well as the more boisterous hollering of the other houses, died to a murmur.

“Just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered,” said the Headmaster, before giving the strangest beginning-of-term notices Harry had ever heard.

“Third-floor corridor?! A most painful death?!” Draco hissed as the Slytherins wound their way down into the depths of Hogwarts. “I knew the old man was batty, but this is insane! Wait until my father hears about this!”

“Perhaps it’s a magical mishap or something,” Theo offered. “You know, something that they haven’t been able to remove yet.”

Harry thought that Theo’s explanation seemed likely, if the administrators of Hogwarts cared about the students’ safety at all. However, he couldn’t help but be suspicious. After working with children for years, the Headmaster and the teachers must realize that vague admonitions to “not go into that terribly mysterious place” was the equivalent of telling all of their students that liters of free ice cream were behind the locked door. There was no more effective deterrent than revealing all of the details about a certain restriction; it stripped it of its mystery.

So why didn’t the Headmaster take a few more minutes to explain that one of Professor Snape’s experiments went wrong, or something? Or, even if the reason was classified, why didn’t he invent an innocuous lie? It was almost like the Headmaster _wanted_ all of his students, especially the foolhardy Gryffindors, to go rushing into danger. Harry barely stopped himself from snorting. Even brilliant people were susceptible to bouts of idiocy, it seemed.

The trip into what Harry assumed were the dungeons of Hogwarts castle was fairly uneventful, but extremely educational. It was one thing to know that portraits were animate in the wizarding world and quite another to be heckled by a particularly drunk wizard when Harry briefly obscured his view of a naked woman on the opposite wall. The moving staircases were extremely disorienting, and Harry committed to memory all of the insane idiosyncrasies of each staircase and hallway. He swore to himself that he would not venture onto a set of stairs that he had not observed someone else traverse. The step with enchanted _teeth_ was frightening enough to turn Harry off stairs for the rest of his life.

Eventually, the crowd of students arrived at a unremarkable bookshelf that was ensconced in a line of extremely similar shelves. Harry quickly counted; it was the fifth one in line.

A boy at the head of the crowd halted in front of the bookshelf and turned to face the Slytherins. He was of middling height with wavy, black hair and sharp, hard eyes. Under his glare, the students were absolutely silent.

“For those who don’t know me, I am Thad Farley, one of your seventh-year prefects,” the boy stated, going into a bow that Harry’s book had described as “proper for a crowd full of allies or potential allies.”

Harry and the rest of the Slytherins performed the answering bow, acknowledging both the introduction and the implied promise of mutual support.

“This,” the boy gestured to the bookshelf. “Is the entrance to our common room. Tell _no one_ of its location.” His glare became downright murderous. “Am I _perfectly_ clear?”

He was answered by a chorus of affirmation.

“Good.” His glare softened, marginally. “Now, the password changes every fortnight and is posted on the message board, understand?” He didn’t wait for a confirmation, but continued, “The password is currently ‘Boomslang,’ as in the snake.” He turned to the shelf and calmly repeated the password. The shelf slid open to reveal an opening. Thad was the first to step into the common room, followed by the rest of Slytherin House.

Harry, when he ducked through the opening, found himself in possibly the most _amazing_ common room he could have imagined. The couches were leather and plump and the décor was grand and sophisticated. But the most awe-inspiring feature was the view from the windows – they looked out into what must have been the lake. Harry could faintly see swirling shadows in the murky waters as the common room was draped with the green tint of the Black Lake.

“Returning students,” Thad said, recapturing the Slytherins’ attention. “You are excused. Your rooms are, of course, in the same locations, unless you requested a room change.”

The majority of the students broke into two groups, based, it seemed, on gender, and each made its way to one of the doors on opposite sides of the common room. Harry could see that each led to a wide spiral staircase, large enough to comfortably accommodate two-way traffic.  

“Firsties, listen up,” Thad instructed the remaining students. “Professor Snape will drop by later to address your class, but it is my job to introduce you to the rules of Slytherin. Disobey them, and your punishment will be much worse than a couple of detentions.” He glared menacingly at all of them.

“First, whatever political maneuvers or power plays that you are involved in stay firmly within this house. I don’t care that your fellow Slytherin called your mother a whore and your father a cuckold,” Thad ignored the scattering of shocked gasps, “but it will not leave this common room. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, we are all the best of friends in Slytherin house. Any _sign_ of weakness,” his icy eyes showed the depth of his seriousness, “and they will find the key to tearing us apart.

“Second,” he continued, “you will all help uphold this house’s honor. You are now a part of the Slytherin clan, which means that you defend this house as you defend your family. This also means,” his roving eyes came to rest on Crabbe and Goyle, “that you need to maintain acceptable grades. If one member of Slytherin is failing, we all are. Provide tutoring when needed and create study groups, understand?”

All the first years nodded.

“That’s about it,” Thad said. “Just remember that this isn’t one of your daddy’s little political balls - it’s your family for the next seven years. Perhaps, if you don’t misstep, you won’t be torn apart by your housemates.” He smiled, but there was no joy or humor in it.

“Now, about housing.” A few students perked up. Thad smirked. “Ah, I can see you’re excited about that. Well, I hate to inform you, but…” he trailed off, his sinister grin widening. “You are quite the unlucky year.

“You see, rooms are fixed in Slytherin house,” Thad explained. “So the room you get you’ll be staying in until graduation. The door behind me leads to a staircase from which you can access the boys’ dormitories, all seven floors of them.”

Harry groaned, understanding where this was going. He realized, after all eyes turned to him, that he had actually made a sound. He blanked his face and carefully swallowed his nervousness while he cursed himself internally.

“Yes, Mr. Potter?” Thad inquired silkily. “Is something the matter?”

Harry accessed his choices quickly. He could back down, admitting he didn’t mean to make the sound, but that submissiveness would put him dead last on the rapidly forming social ladder. Or he could answer, careful to not be impertinent or smart-alecky.

“We’re all on the seventh floor, aren’t we?” Harry asked, with the right touch of dread and resignation.

Thad’s grin widened as all the other children groaned as well. “Good job stealing my thunder, Mr. Potter,” he said, but luckily for Harry, he didn’t sound mad or annoyed, but instead slightly amused.

“Yes,” Thad said, once more addressing the assembled first years, “Potter is correct. You are all on the seventh floor and will stay there for seven years.” He chuckled. “I hope you like stairs.

“Now,” Thad continued. “My companion,” he gestured to a willowy blond girl who was standing unobtrusively behind him, “is Emma Avery, the other seventh-year prefect. Each of you will have one roommate, and unless you discover that it is simply impossible to live with them, you will stay with them for all seven years. Boys, you come and tell me your preferred roommates, and girls will talk with Emma. You need to be back down in the common room at 10 o’clock sharp to meet with Professor Snape. You do _not_ want to be late.”

With that proclamation, the first years split into two groups, each descending on their assigned prefect. Harry had a brief moment of fear that no one would choose him as a roommate, but Theo dispelled that half-formed thought by grabbing his hand and physically tugging him to stand in front of Thad.

“Theodore Nott and Harry Potter,” Theo stated firmly when it was their turn.

Thad nodded in acknowledgement. “Room three,” he informed them, noting their room assignment on a piece of charmed paper. “Your names should be on the plaques next to your door now, and together you two need to decide on a password.”

Theo nodded, tugging Harry to the stairs before he could respond. They both briskly trotted up the spiral staircase and it took entirely too long to reach the seventh floor.

“Seven years of this,” Harry murmured, and Theo let out a small groan in response.

It was simple to find their room and to set their password. Theo agreed that they should change it every fortnight, but they were discussing this out in the open hallway, and both of them knew that it would really be changed on a random schedule that they would lay out in the safety of their quarters. Similarly, “Jobberknoll” was only going to be the password until the hallways were cleared and Theo or Harry could slip back out to change it to a better password.

Inside their room, an elegant space decorated in shades of green with two desks and two canopy beds, Theo and Harry discovered their trunks at the foot of their beds. A rush of gratefulness flooding him, Harry immediately fished his wand and his galleons out of his trunk, slipping them into his robes.

Harry and Theo were quiet as they unpacked their belongings. Harry, since he didn’t unload his books from the library compartment in his trunk, quickly finished arranging his few belongings. Theo handed him a leather-bound book in the middle of his unpacking and Harry, in return, forked over four galleons. Theo raised an eyebrow and Harry smirked back, fully aware of his generous tip. Theo had told him three galleons, and that was obviously an exaggeration itself, based off of Flourish and Blotts prices and the fact that this book was evidently used. However, with the amount of money he had, Harry figured it was better for him to use some to keep his roommate in good spirits.

After stowing away Theo’s book (and if it was as disreputable as Theo had claimed in Flourish and Blotts, Harry would have to find a more secure place to keep it), Harry darted back out into the hallway, quickly checking for eavesdroppers before changing the password to “sunshine.” Harry smirked. He had suggested it and Theo had agreed, claiming between his bouts of laughter that no self-respecting Slytherin would ever guess _that_ as Harry and Theo’s password.

Harry reentered their room just as Theo was checking the time with a _tempus_ charm. “Thirty minutes,” the boy muttered to himself as he collapsed back on his bed with a sigh.

Harry mirrored him, pulling out the book that Theo bought him and examining it. “A Summary of Forbidden Magicks,” the leather cover read. The author’s name did not appear anywhere on the book, and Harry’s estimation of the danger in owning this book skyrocketed. He had assumed, due to Theo’s alacrity in offering to buy the book for a stranger, that the most he could get for owning this was a slap on the wrist.

However, if the author of this book didn’t even dare to put his name on it…. Harry bit his lip harshly at the sudden shock of fear he felt.

This also changed his perception of Theo dramatically. Theo claimed that he didn’t know that Harry was the Boy-Who-Lived when they first met, and was therefore unaware of Harry’s status in the wizarding world. Why, then, did Theo offer to buy the book for him? Was he really _that_ injudicious? Harry couldn’t believe that, not with the ease that Theo assimilated himself into the Slytherin social scene. No, Theo was playing a much bigger game than Harry had first assumed.

Harry would play along, for now. Theo was his greatest ally, and he wasn’t about to alienate him over mere suspicion.

For the next twenty minutes, Harry flipped through the book, but nothing jumped out at him. There were all sorts of strange magics in this book: rituals, permanent body modifications, creature inheritances. However, by the time that Theo and he left their room to meet Snape with the rest of the first years, Harry hadn’t found any mention of seeing the dead.

Harry and Theo were the first ones back down in the common room, and so seated themselves on the padded couch with the best view of the room. The couch’s back was to the wall, and Harry briefly wondered if all Slytherins were as paranoid as Theo and Harry.

Five minutes later, Harry and Theo were joined by the rest of the boys: Draco, Blaise, Vincent, and Greg. Two minutes after that, Millicent and her roommate, Tracey Davis, came down the other set of stairs and claimed a leather loveseat. As ten o’clock approached, Millicent began to grin viciously.

“Do you think they’ll miss it?” she finally asked, with a suppressed note of dark glee in her voice.

Draco snorted delicately. “Are you seriously still holding a grudge against Pansy, Millie?”

“You know Millie,” Theo chimed in. “She’s made an art out of grudge-holding.”

Millicent threw Theo a disdainful look. “Quiet you,” she ordered sharply. “And yes, Draco, I’m still holding a grudge against Parkinson for making my father and me look like idiots at your family’s annual Midsummer ball.”

“And Greengrass?” Blaise drawled.

Millicent shrugged. “I’ve got nothing against her. But if she’s not down here, it’s likely that Parkinson isn’t down here either.”

Blaise tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Fair enough,” he said, as the door to the common room swung open.

Harry and Theo were faced in the correct direction to see Professor Snape’s entrance, but both were adept enough at concealing emotion and intent that they were able to give no sign that Professor Snape had silently entered the common room.

Oblivious to the teacher behind them, the other students continued their discussion. Harry wasn’t sure what Snape’s game was, but a glance at Theo’s face told him that Theo was feeling quite smug at not giving away their professor’s presence. Harry wondered what Theo knew that he didn’t.

“What did she even do, Millie?” Tracy Davis asked curiously, as Snape quietly approached their group.

“Well, she arrived at the ball in this tight, little, green slip,” Millicent began with venom. “You know, one showing _everything_.” Draco chuckled in agreement. “And then that slut –”

“Dear me, Miss Bulstrode,” Snape interjected silkily. Theo’s mouth curved into a gleeful grin and Harry realized that this was what Theo had been going for – the humiliation of Millicent and the others. The irony was pretty funny, Harry acknowledged. Millicent had been so concentrated on Pansy’s imminent shame that she had forgotten to guard herself against humiliation. It was a small thing, but, as Harry was beginning to learn, small things had large impacts in Slytherin.

“One would think that you were raised in a brothel, not in the house of a minor lord,” Snape continued with a sneer. Millicent bowed her head and swallowed thickly. The rest of the Slytherins were impassive, including Theo, who had long since wiped his Cheshire Cat grin from his face.

“Davis!” Snape snapped. Tracy jumped to attention. “Fetch Misses Parkinson and Greengrass from their room.” With a nod, Tracy sprang to her feet and raced up the stairs.

“Well,” Snape continued, striding into the center of the ring of couches and transfiguring a nearby end-table into an elegant chair for himself. “At least most of this year’s class is punctual,” he said, seating himself on the chair with his usual grace.

The next few minutes passed in absolute, awkward silence. The heavy tension was broken by the breathless arrival of Tracy Davis, followed by Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson.

As soon as Daphne reached the circle of couches, she ducked into a bow with one hand stretched out, palm up, towards Snape – a sign of apology from a subordinate to a superior. In return, Snape gave a slight nod and made the customary gesture of an accepted apology – two spins of the first two fingers of the right hand.

Pansy was obviously taken aback by this display and had a highly uncomfortable look on her face. Theo’s body was shaking next to Harry’s on the couch, and Harry realized, from a brief glance to Theo’s face, that the boy was suppressing laughter. An uncomfortable knot twisted in Harry’s stomach as he finally understood the ramifications of being in Slytherin - had he not studied the customs and manners of wizards to an exhaustive degree before arriving, he would have been worse off than Pansy Parkinson, who was obviously considered to be an uncultured buffoon.

Pansy bit her lip before sinking into a bow, intending to mirror Daphne’s textbook-perfect apology. Her inexperience was evident in her shaking and awkward movements. Harry didn’t have enough knowledge to understand exactly what she was doing incorrectly, but the rest of the first-year Slytherins found her display hilarious. Their impassive masks wavered as they tried to hold in their laughter, and Harry realized, with a touch of derision, that his polite masks were much better than theirs, although they had undoubtedly been trained to keep their emotions hidden from birth. But then, so was he, he realized wryly. When distain and amusement earned you a beating, you learned to keep them well-concealed.

However, Harry noticed that Snape wasn’t amused like the Slytherin first-years. In fact, a corner of his mouth was twitching, as if he was barely repressing a sneer. His eyes, directed at the giggling Slytherins, held only contempt. Briefly, Snape met Harry’s eyes, and after a searching moment, the distain bled away  to be replaced with some unfamiliar emotion. Snape’s lips curved into a slight smile before turning back to Pansy and making the proper gesture of acceptance.

“Thank you, Miss Parkinson,” he said, a hint of kindness in his eyes. She nodded in return and quickly took a seat, the shame in her eyes unabated. Harry realized with a start that she couldn’t see the minute softening of Snape’s features that signaled his sympathy.

“Well,” Snape drawled dangerously, addressing all of the first years. “What an…” he paused, his mouth twisting into a sneer, “ _auspicious_ start to the new school year.” Most of the first years looked slightly cowed by Snape’s derision. Theo, Harry noticed, was one of the few who was not.

“Now,” Snape continued, condescension dripping from his voice, “this little _power play_ of yours was acceptable, disregarding its pettiness and lack of forethought. But,” a hint of steel entered his smooth baritone, “if this had occurred outside of Slytherin, in one of your classes, for example, all of you would be in detention for weeks.” He glared at the assembled students forebodingly. “Slytherin is far more than a mere Hogwarts house. It is far different than a family.” He smirked. “It is a…” he made a show of searching for the right word. Harry could tell that he had given this same speech many times, though. There was a hint of routine and boredom in Snape’s gestures. “A political party,” Snape concluded. “Bickering within Slytherin is inevitable, but when external pressures threaten the house, we stand together. You are not required to _like_ your peers, but you are expected to support them. Have I made myself clear?”

The first years nodded, the ones involved in the “little power play” did so particularly frantically. It wasn’t a hard crowd to intimidate, but Harry was impressed by how well Snape accomplished it. He was more used to Vernon’s style of intimidation, but Snape didn’t use superior size or temper to cow the first years – he used a particularly effective combination of sheer confidence and a sharp tongue.

“With that said,” Snape’s voice softened as his expression eased. Harry noted that some of the open concern that Snape had displayed after the apparation was hinted at in his manner. “You are always welcome in my office. Any problems you may have, academic or personal, I am more than happy to assist you with them. I would not go as far as to say that you are all like sons and daughters to me, but you are all under my authority, and thus each of you is my responsibility. I will do everything in my power to advance your goals and ameliorate your pains.” His last words had the intonation and weight of ritual, and Snape nodded his head with a strange side-twist. Harry hadn’t read about this particular gesture before, and so mirrored Theo’s response of a similar nod. He hoped he had mimicked it correctly, but then, no one was laughing at him, so that was a good sign. He had no idea what had just occurred, and he resolved to find more texts on Pureblood culture.

“You will receive your schedules tomorrow,” Snape continued, “at breakfast. Before then, your prefects will review the rules of Hogwarts with you – the general rules, not the Slytherin-specific ones. Thus, you must be here, in the common room at 6 am sharp. Do not repeat today’s farce.” He stood, easily transfiguring his chair back into an end table. “Oh,” he said, like he had just remembered something. The children’s attention snapped back to him, and Harry suspected, although the act was perfect, that this was another bit of Snape’s yearly ritual. “I almost forgot.” Snape smirked. “Welcome to Slytherin.” He exited the common room to the cheers and claps of the first-years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... And this story is now paused for summer break! At least it's not a cliffhanger? I do that on other stories quite a bit. Thank you all for commenting and reading! Please continue to do so, and I'll see you all in the fall!


	6. Of Books and Classes

Within an hour of returning to their room, Theo was asleep, having rushed through his nighttime ablutions with a speed only ever achieved by the truly exhausted. Harry, on the other hand, was still awake, sightlessly staring into the darkness. He couldn’t get to sleep, the enormity of his situation hitting him all at once. He realized that he had been so focused on getting out from under the Dursleys without raising their suspicions that he had simply put his worries to the back of his mind. But here he was, in an entirely new world, friendless and alone for the first time in his life. Suddenly, the Dursleys didn’t seem too bad, because if he was back there, he would be with Maeve, Aelfred, and the rest of his friends. Off-kilter and homesick, Harry slipped out of bed and went to find the one thing that always calmed him down – ghosts.

Sneaking down the stairs and out of the common room, Harry realized that this might be a bit rash. He didn’t want to be labelled as a rulebreaker his first day at Hogwarts and he didn’t know his way around the castle at all. On the other hand…

He did need to meet the ghosts of the castle. He would never forget his goal – to send as many ghosts to the afterlife as he could – and this included magical ghosts as well, although he was sure that their requests would be a lot stranger than his non-magical friends’.

And, of course, he needed to see what they knew about wizards that could speak to the dead. These people, only these, he could trust without reservation. He felt a tenseness that he hadn’t realized was there bleed out of him.

After all, dead men told no lies. Not to him, at least.

With much fewer reservations than he had possessed at the beginning of his jaunt, Harry silently slipped away from the common room, his feet skipping noiselessly over Hogwarts’ stone floors. He had often had to flitch food from the Dursleys, which required a certain level of stealth. He was grateful for the practice now, but that didn’t stop the brief flare of anger in his chest as he thought of his relatives. He determinedly smothered it, though – his relatives had no place in this new world of his.

As he passed through dark hallways, he nodded to the ghosts that drifted through Hogwarts’ passageways. Stunned, they all slowly drifted behind him, wide-eyed, shocked by the boy that could see them. By the time that Harry had retraced his steps back to the Great Hall, he had amassed a huge group of ghosts.

The Great Hall contained just as many, though. Although the students had already left, the ghosts that had congregated for the Sorting had not dispersed. Bookies were still good-naturedly bickering with their clientele, groups of friends were deep in discussion, and the general atmosphere of celebration and good cheer was still lingering around the spectral party. However, as Harry entered the room with his entourage of spirits, everything fell silent, all the ghosts turning to look at him. Unlike the stares of his classmates, the focus of the ghosts didn’t disturb him. Perhaps it was the lack of definition in their eyes, their irises hazy and their pupils indistinct, or maybe the stillness of their faces. Ghosts weren’t given to emotional outbursts, as death, Harry had discovered, seemed to smooth out the edges of even the most abrasive personalities.

“Hello, my friends,” Harry said, and then repeated it in all of the languages he knew, cycling from Modern English into Old English, then moving into Old Norse and Old High German before dipping into the various Celtic languages and ending at Latin and Norman French. He received a chorus of greetings in return, and quickly realized that this assemblage of spirits was extremely diverse, both in the times and the regions they had lived in. However, it was still less intimidating than some of the groups of ghosts he had found during his infrequent trips into the oldest parts of London, and luckily, he had already developed techniques for communicating with large groups of spirits.

Harry repeated his greetings, this time pointing emphatically to different sections of the room to direct ghosts with the same language to segregate themselves. Once he had accomplished this, there were only a couple of ghosts left (that Harry, with the help of some translators, found spoke some of the Germanic languages he didn’t know, like Gothic and Gaulish).

Once the spirits were gathered in packs, Harry slowly made his way through the crowd, asking for the ghosts’ deepest yearnings. Like he had found with “Muggle” ghosts, there were a great deal of spirits that wanted messages conveyed and wills and personal treasures delivered to the correct recipient. There was also a surprising number of ghosts that requested revenge – especially among the more modern ghosts, who insisted that Harry kill “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named”. When Harry reminded them that they were dead, and this person really couldn’t hurt them now, they supplied a familiar name – “Lord Voldemort”.

Harry froze. “Lord Voldemort?” he repeated to the angry horde, just to check.

“Yeah, Lord V-V-Voldemort,” one wizard stuttered. “His Death Eaters tortured my wife to death!” All of the other ghosts chorused agreement, shouting out the offenses committed against them by Voldemort.

“As far as I know,” Harry ventured, “the man’s already dead.”

The spirits replied with a chorus of negative answers. “He’s really not,” one witch piped up. “We’d feel it, eh fellas?” The others nodded in agreement.

Harry sighed, running one hand over his face. He’d already known that about ghosts – when he was six, one of his friends had moved on when his nemesis had died from cancer at the ripe old age of 87. Harry had even double-checked with the obituaries in the paper to make sure that the ghost had been able to tell exactly when the other man died, and found that the ghost had been spot-on. If a group of spirits claimed that a man was still alive….

“You’re sure?” Harry asked again. “It’s not the fake name thing, right?”

“Positive,” the same witch replied.

“Well, fuck,” Harry said.

The room was silent for a few moments. “So…” one wizard ventured, “does that mean you’ll kill him for us?”

“Deepest and sincerest apologies, but I’m not at a place in my life when I can seriously contemplate taking the life of another human being. Please ask again in ten to fifteen years, thank you very much,” Harry rattled off in a monotone. This response that had been drilled into him by his ghostly friends since he was old enough to talk was as familiar to him as his name at this point.

The ghosts sighed in disappointment. “Sure thing, lad,” said a wizard with a Scottish brogue. “We’ll do that.”

“And _this_ is why I like ghosts,” Harry muttered to himself as he proceeded to the next cluster of spirits.

By the time that Harry had finished questioning the spirits about their requirements to pass on, it was almost dawn, the ceiling of the Great Hall showing a hint of light. With a hurried farewell and a slew of curses, Harry took off back through the hallways to his room, hoping he could get there before Theo or the rest of the House woke up. He hadn’t had time to ask them about his abilities, but, well, he’d have plenty of time in the future, he realized.

He made it just in time, slipping into his room just as Theo was beginning to stir. Harry quickly changed his robes and brushed his hair into some semblance of order, resigning himself to a busy day without any sleep.

Thirty minutes later, Harry trotted back down the stairs, followed by a groggy Theo. The two of them were the last first years down, but a glance at an impressive clock that stood beside the girls’ dormitory stairway confirmed that Harry and Theo were still five minutes early. The prefects hadn’t even arrived yet. The professor had cowed the first years pretty thoroughly, Harry thought, and had to bite his lip to prevent snickers from escaping.

At exactly six o’clock, the two prefects from last night, Thad and Emma, arrived to meet the first years. In a deserted common room, the prefects listed out the Hogwarts rules to a bunch of yawning first years, a task that thankfully only took fifteen minutes. By that time, a few early risers had begun to trickle into the common room from the dormitories. When the recitation of Hogwarts rules was finished, an activity, Harry noted with amusement, which took a great deal less time than explaining the “Slytherin” rules, the first years, led by the two prefects, exited the common room together to go to breakfast.

As Harry stepped into the corridor, three ghosts converged on him. They looked very proud of themselves, Harry noted, and he suspected that they were likely the winners of some selection process the Hogwarts spirits had implemented to keep the entire crowd of them from following him around everywhere. He felt a brief flare of warmth at the thought. However much his muggle ghosts liked him, they had never tried to implement crowd-control, although, he supposed, it wasn’t like it mattered at the Dursleys. He didn’t need to pay much attention to chores anyway, and a little slip in concentration was only likely to get him a slap at worse. He had no idea about the rules of this new world, and he would need his wits about him. He was thankful for the presence of the ghosts, though, as it was a soothing, familiar thing in the chaos of his life.

The three ghosts that had been “chosen” were some of the more vibrant he had met, he realized as he observed them surreptitiously, and he certainly remembered their names and desires. The female ghost of the bunch was, in life, the wife of a minor Norman noble (and prominent wizard), and thus spoke in the strange mix of Middle English and Norman French that was common in the 1200’s. Her name was Annette, and she was searching for information about her husband and her children, as they had all gone missing days before she was assassinated in her own home. Harry knew from experience that these sort of searches were difficult, as following an eight-hundred-year old trail required a certain access to rare and old manuscripts that it was virtually impossible to get a hold of as a child. Perhaps the wizarding world was different, he mused, and if he really was as much of a celebrity as he seemed to be, perhaps he could use his fame to gain him access. However, that was a dilemma for another day – the ghosts’ needs would wait until he settled.

Of the other two ghosts, one had died relatively recently (from a potions accident in his private laboratory in 1960). His name was Titus Rowle, but he had told Harry that he wouldn’t find his name anywhere of import. “My brother’s, maybe,” he had informed Harry with only a hint of bitterness. “He’s a world-class dueller and a follower of the Dark Lord, so,” he had said with a smirk, “you’ll see his name in the Daily Prophet one way or another.” Titus wanted Harry to create and popularize the potion he had been working on before his death and to publish his findings under Titus’ name. “My notes were all lost in the explosion,” Titus had explained, “and I was so close to a breakthrough!”

The last ghost in his posse was the first ghost that Harry had interacted with at Hogwarts, the Anglo-Saxon man that had benefitted off of Harry’s correction about his probable house. His name was Eadwig, and he was, as far as Harry could tell, obsessed with arithmancy and ward configurations. He had tried explaining to Harry the ward he wanted Harry to implement, but Harry had become hopelessly lost within minutes. Arithmancy and runes books had become much higher on his list of books that he needed to find in the library after that.

As Harry walked to breakfast, he was once again surrounded by the chatter of ghosts. In Hogwarts, more ghosts than had ever congregated at the Dursleys’ occupied the hallways. They nodded to Harry and his companions as they passed, a few ghosts following Harry for a bit to chat with one of his three spirits before nodding to Harry and departing back to their previous conversations. Harry had always found the social interactions of ghosts to be fascinating, because, perhaps, it would be more logical for them not to interact with each other at all. Harry had found that ghosts could never fulfill each other’s “last wishes” – if a spirit wanted to tell his story, for example, he would have to tell it to Harry, not one of his fellows. Also, since ghosts could only remember so much new information, Harry had observed that ghosts’ friendships tended to progress in a cyclical fashion. After a few years, they would begin to rehash old information, like telling stories over again or asking for previously known facts. This occurred between Harry and his ghostly friends too, of course, although they seemed to somehow have a slightly better memory when it came to him. He had really only observed it so far in Aelfred, his oldest friend, who had forgotten a great deal of Harry’s early life with the Dursleys.

In any case, the chatter of ghosts was a familiar sound to him, and as he travelled to the Great Hall with his half-asleep classmates, he let it wash over him and calm a part of him that had been panicked ever since he had seen his ghostly friends on the wrong side of the doorway in the Leaky Cauldron.

It didn’t take long for the group of Slytherins to arrive at breakfast, and when they got there, Harry realized that they were the only ones in the Great Hall. He wasn’t the only one who thought this was odd, judging by the looks on his classmates’ faces.

“What… where is everyone?” Draco was the first one to voice their collective confusion.

“Oh, didn’t you know?” said Emma with a smirk. “Classes start at nine.” As the first-years turned to her with almost comical looks of betrayal, she explained. “You really, really want to be awake for this first week of classes at least. We’ll be meeting at the same time every day this week – it’ll give you time to wake up, review your textbooks, and ask us any questions you may have about how we do things in Slytherin. We want you to be as prepared as you can be before classes really take off. Of course, you can always ask us questions, but these three hours before class this week will be devoted to you, so we’ll never be more available than we are now, understand?” Emma smiled when the first years all nodded in unison. “Great!” she exclaimed, as she chivied them to a table that was rapidly beginning to be filled with piles of food.

As Harry and the other first years ate, Thad and Emma passed out their timetables. When Theo, who was sitting beside Harry, saw the schedule, he groaned.

“What is it?” Harry asked. Nothing on the schedule seemed too disappointing – in fact, he was looking forward to the classes today.

“We have History of Magic first thing.” Theo dropped his forehead onto the table. “I’m already exhausted, Harry. I cannot deal with the sporo-… sop-… oh, whatever that word is. I can’t deal with that sleep-inducing class first-thing in the morning, okay?”

“Soporific?” Harry offered. “I think that’s what you mean.”

“Yes, you Ravenclaw,” Theo teased with a fond smirk. “That’s what I meant. But let’s concentrate on the important things. Me sleepy, History of Magic boring.”

Harry arched an eyebrow. “Well?” he asked. “What do you want me to do? I’m not gonna be your personal alarm clock.”

“Haaaarry,” Theo whined. “It’s too early in the morning to be mean to me!”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “No, it’s too early for whining. Not that that’s stopping you,” he remarked.

Harry and Theo continued bantering as the Great Hall slowly filled with people. When other first years finally joined their conversation, Harry realized that the Hall had become much noisier, and that the tables were around half-full. When nine o’clock rolled around, Emma and Thad gathered up the chatting first years and directed them to go grab their books, parchment, and quills from their rooms before going to the History of Magic classroom.

“Good luck surviving Binns!” Thad told them. “Try not to fall asleep, alright? Anyway, on your way there, watch out for the trick walls. There should be two you have to go through to get to the classroom, but they’re not hard to find. You all good?”

The first years nodded and when Draco started to bow, the others sunk into the bow that Harry had performed in front of Snape the night before, which conveyed gratitude to a superior. Caught off-guard, Harry had a brief moment of forgetful terror. He couldn’t remember how his hands were supposed to go, and his feet, how were they…? He was saved by Titus Rowle, who sunk into the proper bow next to Thad. Harry hurriedly copied him, praying that no one had noticed him freezing up. Thankfully, as the excited first-years set off for the History of Magic classroom, it seemed that Harry’s near-disaster had passed undetected. Harry made a frantic mental note to check out more etiquette books as soon as possible. He smiled to Titus discretely in thanks, and the ghost grinned back.

The first part of the trip to the History of Magic classroom from the common room was fairly easy with their prefects’ instructions, and the group of first-years avoided the trick steps and got on the correct moving stairways easily. The first challenge for Harry occurred at the trick wall. Since his classmates were moving through it easily enough, Harry blithely stepped into the illusion of a stone wall right behind Theo.

As soon as he did, it felt like he was being speared by thousands of molten needles. It wasn’t as intense as the pain that Harry had felt during apparation, but it was still excruciating, and Harry locked his jaw and breathed through his nose to stop himself from screaming. With a couple steps, he was through, but his skin was still tingling even as he took a couple deep, slow, quiet breaths to calm himself. Everyone else, he noted, was absolutely fine. He was the only one dealing with debilitating pain. 

Before Harry could stop it, a groan escaped him. There was a little residual aching in his joints, and Harry had just realized that this was far from the last time he would have to deal with the pain from fake walls, of all things.

Theo looked at him in concern. “You okay there, Harry?”

Harry forced a smile onto his face. “Yeah. Just thinking that… we’ll have to find that again at some point. I’m terrible with directions.” He tried to keep the strain out of his voice as the tingles on his skin and the aches in his joints slowly faded.

He must have done a good job of it, because Theo just smiled back. “Well, I’ll just have to always come with you. I like to think that I’m pretty good at navigating!”

Harry smiled in response, a true one this time. “I’ll hold you to that.” He felt a flare of warmth inside at the thought of Theo actually _sticking around_ , like one of Harry’s ghosts. He tried to quash the feeling, reminding himself that involving himself with the living was futile – they left, they caused pain, they lied, they destroyed… but a little flicker of warmth persisted.

Just as the last of the pains faded from Harry’s body, the group of Slytherins approached the second fake wall. However, they couldn’t find it. “It should be here,” said Draco, pushing ineffectively at a patch of solid stone. “We didn’t take a wrong turn, right?”

“I don’t think so,” Tracey replied. “Hey everyone, spread out and search!”

The Slytherins were soon all prodding at sections of wall, and after a couple of minutes of fruitless searching, Harry had an idea. Stepping around his classmates, he nimbly ran his fingertips along the wall. Several meters from where they were, his fingers finally contacted something that felt like molten metal. Harry turned back to his classmates, who were all staring at him. “Found it!” he cried.

“Really?” Draco called back.

Gritting his teeth, Harry shoved his hand into the fake wall in demonstration. He didn’t reply back, because he knew that if he opened his mouth, he would start screaming. After a couple of seconds, he jerked his hand out and gestured for the other Slytherins to go through the fake wall.

“How did you do that?” Theo asked Harry once they were finally inside the History of Magic classroom. The aches still hadn’t faded from the second wall yet, and Harry had to closely control his expression. “Just feel where the illusion was, I mean.”

“The texture was a bit off,” Harry replied. “I’m sure if you paid close attention you could find it too.” Well, that certainly proved that the others didn’t feel a bit of pain. If they did, they could have found it the same way he did.

The teacher wasn’t there yet, but the Slytherins still all settled into their seats a few minutes early. At exactly nine o’clock, a ghost floated up through the floor and took its place at the front of the room. “I’m Professor Binns,” the image told the class, “and I will be your teacher for History of Magic.”

Harry sat pale and trembling in his seat as the rest of the class seemed to slip into a doze as the class progressed. The spirit attached to the image groaned in agony, twisting its head to stare at Harry. “Help me,” the spirit whispered. “They said that you can see us. Can you see me?” It stared for a few moments as Harry stared fixedly at the blackboard at the front of the room. “Can you hear me?” Harry carefully didn’t move. Behind him, Annette, Titus, and Eadwig shifted in discomfort.

“He can’t hear you, okay?” Titus finally exclaimed. “He can’t see you, just that image that the wizards see!” Silently, Annette and Eadwig offered their support by placing ghostly hands on Harry’s shoulders. 

The spirit stared at Titus for a few moments. “I don’t believe you,” it finally said. “I don’t believe you! I think he can hear me, and you all just want him for yourselves! Why can’t we talk to him as well?” it demanded. “You and your kind, you shun us! It’s not our fault –”

“Yes it is!” Titus yelled. It was taking all of Harry’s self-control to not stare at the arguing spirits. “You went to the Ministry, asked them to do this to you -”

“I didn’t know!” the spirit shrieked. (“Hogwarts was founded in the late 900’s, and the history before this time is hazy,” said the image to a bored class of Slytherins.) “Don’t act high and mighty, Thorfinn! You didn’t know either!”

“I’m not Thorfinn, Binns,” Titus said. “What’s my name?” The spirit was silent. “Well, Binns? You taught me when you were alive – what’s my name? Can’t remember?” he taunted.

“Shut up,” the spirit snarled, its vicious expression wildly different from the placid expression of the image. It was easily the most emotional spirit Harry had ever seen and he wondered what twisted, depraved acts were performed at the Ministry to transform a ghost to this abomination. He felt terrible for it, but he had no idea how to fix it. He could barely even force himself to look at it, much less figure out how to “help” it. Averting his gaze from the front of the room, Harry realized that besides his three companions, there were no other ghosts in the room. Harry sympathized with them. If he could, he wouldn’t be in this room either.

“I just wanted to teach!” the spirit continued. “Is that such a crime?”

“You were afraid of death! You chose mutilation over a peaceful passing!”

“How could I have known?” the spirit cried. “If you had possessed the money, the foresight, the sense of death creeping upon you, would you have not done the same?”

“No!” cried Titus. “Do you wonder why more purebloods don’t follow your path? It’s wrong – the ritual should have been destroyed with the rest in the Great Purge! Of all the things the Ministry would preserve…”

“Oh, don’t be so self-righteous, dark wizard,” the spirit sneered. “I’m sure you’ve been involved in much darker magic.”

“At least I didn’t consign myself to an eternity of insanity,” Titus snapped. “So leave Harry alone, you loony.”

“I can’t.” The spirit smiled, almost grotesquely wide. “I’m his teacher.”

For the rest of the lesson, Harry shakily took notes on a roll of parchment with one of his new quills. Eadwig and Annette helped him by feeding him occasional tips, but it was his first time with a quill, and that combined with his shakiness meant that all he got from History of Magic was a horribly ink-stained page of poorly written notes and a mind full of questions.

The day didn’t get any better, much to Harry’s disgust. To get to the next class after History of Magic, Transfiguration, he had to go through another illusion of a wall and only the feeling of nails stabbing into his foot stopped him from putting his foot through a trick step when he was going down the stairs.

Transfiguration was taught by Professor McGonagall, the woman with a bound ghost that had greeted the first years. When the Slytherins entered the room, they had only seen a tabby cat on the desk, and with a bit of confusion, had taken their seats and begun to chat. Only Harry realized that the cat wasn’t as it seemed, as McGonagall’s ghost was floating around the animal. Bound ghosts were never far from their living human, and so the logical conclusion was that McGonagall was the cat, however strange that conclusion was.

As Harry took out a clean roll of parchment in preparation for class, the bound ghost turned curiously to Harry’s three companions. “Are the rumors true then?” he asked. “Can this boy see us?”

“Yes,” Titus answered. “Although I do hope you won’t be bothering him about it.”

The ghost nodded in acknowledgement. “Of course.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “Even if he gave a message to my wife, I couldn’t move on. And it’s not worth him risking his life, certainly.”

Harry stiffened, quickly darting his eyes down to his paper to conceal his shock from his classmates. “Risking his life”… what was the wizarding world’s opinions about people who spoke to the dead?

Titus nodded approvingly. “My thanks, Urquart.” He bowed to the ghost in a manner that Harry recognized as a bow of “gratitude exchanged between equals”, but he knew that there were nuances that he was missing, as his book had mentioned that age, political and academic status, and gender played a role in these sort of interactions.

“Was there someone who _was_ hassling him?” Urquart asked Titus with concern after returning the bow.

Titus grimaced. “Binns was being cruel and obstinate. Harry’s going to have to learn outside of class – he’s never going to be able to effectively learn from those lectures.”

“I’ll try to talk to him,” Urquart promised. “I’m sure nothing will come of it, though – he’s already forgotten most of his life at this point.”

“Yeah,” Titus agreed. “He’s already forgotten me. He remembers my younger brother, though.”

“That far along then?” Urquart seemed troubled. “He’s going to be little more than a screaming wreck sooner rather than later.”

Titus sighed tiredly. “Yes, I know, but there’s nothing we can do about that.”

Urquart nodded. “Regrettably so.” His gaze turned completive as he shifted it to Harry. “I do wish that I could talk with Harry like the rest of you.” He shrugged. “Oh well, my curiosity is quite worthless when weighed against his life.”

“And you can’t leave her?” Titus asked, gesturing to the cat. “Not even for a moment?”

Urquart smiled gently with a hint of melancholy in his expression. “All my other desires pale in comparison to my need to keep her close. I’m sure you understand.”

“I do,” replied Titus, and as he did, the cat, obviously impatient and ready to start class, hopped off the table and transformed into the stern woman that Harry remembered.

Harry was still caught up in Titus’ discussion, and wouldn’t have flinched or startled at all if it wasn’t for the extremely loud curse word spat out by Pansy Parkinson, who was sitting behind him. The rest of the Slytherins snickered at her, obviously entertained by her impolite behavior. Harry didn’t join in, grateful for Pansy’s cursing. If he hadn’t reacted, it would have raised questions that he didn’t want to answer, especially not after the slightly suspicious fake wall incident.

McGonagall didn’t seem to have much of a tolerance for the Slytherins’ mocking herself. With a few glares that promised a painful detention, she was able to silence the room completely.

“For those of you with a subpar memory, my name is Professor McGonagall, head of Gryffindor and your Transfiguration teacher for at least up through your fifth year,” she said with a snap in her voice. “Today, we will be performing your first piece of Hogwarts magic – transfiguring a match into a needle. But before we do, I will cover some of the foundations of Transfiguration, which is a highly complex field. In fact,” she continued, “transfiguration, and its relative, conjuration, are the most difficult magical disciples regularly used today – in the last fifty years, only three new spells have been created. As many of you may be aware, however, there are as many theories of magic as stars in the sky, and so I regrettably cannot tell you with any certainty why this is. The fact remains, however,” she said, fixing the class with a stern look, “that this will likely be one of your most difficult classes. I expect you to pay attention and try your hardest, and I assure you, however dismal your initial performance is, you will improve.”

By the end of this speech, all of the Slytherins looked fairly intimidated and all four ghosts in the room were sporting amused grins. “She almost rivals Severus in sheer presence,” remarked Annette, and the other ghosts nodded, obviously understanding the gist of her statement. Harry was feeling less jovial about the whole thing – this was his first real magic class and he wasn’t sure what to expect. He was obviously magical – the ghosts and the runes were proof of that – but he knew, deep in his heart where the Dursleys’ words had lodged long ago, that he was a freak. Harry had a sudden vision of himself uselessly poking his wand into thin air and his classmates standing around him, jeering. If Transfiguration was such a difficult subject, Harry thought, then it stood to reason that he might be unable to do it. Hard work might be able to overcome a multitude of flaws, but freakishness, he had learned at the Dursleys, was not one of them. A sense of dread stole over him and he was distracted from McGonagall’s lecture, taking in only part of it.

When the class turned to practical work, Harry found that his fears were, in fact, very real. “I can’t do it,” he hissed to Theo, controlling his panic by sheer strength of will. “Look,” he said, poking at his match, “it’s not even a bit silvery.”

“It’s fine, Harry,” Theo reassured him. “Look at my match – it’s not even pointy yet.”

“But at least it’s metallic!”

“Yeah, well,” Theo countered, “then look around. Millicent, Crabbe, Goyle, and Blaise are all in the same situation as you – their matches haven’t changed at all! Weren’t you even listening? McGonagall said that transfiguration was hard. You’ll get it eventually.”

Sensing Theo’s growing irritation, Harry swallowed heavily and forced himself to take several deep breaths. He smiled gratefully at Theo, who looked faintly pleased with himself before nodding and turning back to his needle. When he looked away, Harry let his composure crumple for a moment before rebuilding his mask of nonchalance.

Although Harry tried furiously to turn the match into a needle for the rest of class, all of his desperate visualizations of the change were for naught. At the end of Transfiguration, his match was as wooden as it started. 

The rest of the day was just as frustrating. After lunch, the group of first-years went to their Charms class, which was taught by a tiny man named Flitwick. He was rather excitable, but understandable nonetheless. Luckily, the class consisted only of theory, and Harry gratefully copied down the Professor’s lecture, thankful that his embarrassment in Transfiguration wouldn’t be repeated here.

After that, the Slytherins were off to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Harry didn’t really know what he had been expecting from this class, but this wasn’t it. The room positively reeked of garlic and the blinds were drawn. Professor Quirrell was a stuttering, nervous man, and most of the Slytherins quickly lost patience with the lecture and were reduced to reading their textbooks or doodling on their parchment.

He seemed normal enough at first glance, Harry mused as the professor stumbled through his class, but there was something about him…. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. There was a jittery feeling in the air. A swift glance around him confirmed that his ghostly companions seemed undisturbed, but…. Harry inched out his elbow just enough to move it into Titus’ midsection.

The ghost looked down at him curiously. “What is it, Harry?”

At the corner of his parchment, Harry laboriously wrote out: _Do you feel like there’s something wrong here?_ When he noticed Annette and Eadwig’s attention had also been drawn to his parchment, he copied out the question in Old and Middle English. 

“Not really,” said Titus, and Annette agreed.

“Hmmm…” Eadwig murmured, staring at Quirrell contemplatively. “I think I see what you mean,” he told Harry. “There is something… I have not felt it in years, but perhaps….” He turned to fully face Harry. “I don’t know what it is,” he admitted, “but do not discount your feelings. We, the ghosts, will keep an eye on him for you.”

Harry was fully aware how effective ghosts were as a spy network, especially if they had died before the structure they were in was built so that they could move through the walls with impunity (which didn’t seem to be the case for any of the Hogwarts ghosts, sadly, except for the strange, twisted ones.) Eadwig’s promise reassured him immensely. He spent the rest of class doodling little runes at the top of his parchment.

After Defense Against the Dark Arts, it was time for dinner, and then homework and socialization. Harry spent an hour or so sitting quietly beside Theo in the common room while the first years chatted around him. He knew he should probably be more social, but he was tired, emotionally and physically. When he couldn’t stand it anymore, he excused himself, and fell into bed. Thankfully, sleep came to him quickly, although nightmares haunted him, and he awoke the next morning with the imaginary jeers of his classmates still ringing in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay yeah, as you have all guessed, this story is pretty much abandoned at this point, and I can't pick it back up. Compared to my writing now, I dislike the style of this piece, and the plot and characterization are a bit shoddy. Still, here is the last of what I have written for it. If people want, I can post an outline of where this was going. 
> 
> Sorry for abandoning it - it is my longest work to date, and for that, it will always be special to me, but I'm more into fandom hopping and writing shorter, complete stories these days. 
> 
> If someone likes the idea and/or wants a fuller, more complete idea of how ghosts/magic/runes work in this AU, feel free to contact me. My tumblr is flightofmorning. This story is not up for adoption, but the idea is free for other fics if you want to use it.
> 
> Please don't ask me to update. Every time I see a comment about it, I die inside.
> 
> Much love,  
> Bones


	7. Outline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The outline of where this story would have gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an explanation of the magic and shit, as well as an outline of where the story would have gone.

Brief description about wtf is happening with magic and ghosts –

 

  * Most wizard spells are channeling innate energy along pre-worn “channels” that have been constructed with a runic array. The words help direct the magic to the right “channel”, but experienced wizards can direct their magic down the right pathway with only their will. (You could think of the channels as a specific shape the magic is twisted into. It doesn’t really matter. This is a conception of a natural force.)
  * Harry uses runes, which can be charged with external, or wild magic. Death is a wild magic. Harry has no wizard magic and would never be able to use wizard magic. However, he can construct runic arrays. This is far more difficult for regular wizards.
  * Most of the rules have been explained with spirits. However, there is one more heartbreaking one. Remember how ghosts can only go where they went in life? Yeah, Avada Kedavra severs that tie with the mortal plane, so all casualties of this spell are stuck in one spot, forever in a haze of fog, with no memory of who they were or any ability to pass on.
  * The “ghosts” that wizards see are created kind of like how I imagine portraits to be created. A portion of the wizard’s personality is infused into an item. However, with ghosts, a ritual is carved into their skin so that when they die, some of their personality, _plus their spirit_ , is yanked from beyond into the mortal plane. The connection is dangerous and unbearable for every ghost and they slowly lose their memories and go insane, while the piece of personality survives.



 

Plot outline:

 

Harry’s first year:

  * Harry gets handwriting lessons from the Prefects before classes. This causes his classmates to view him strangely (remember, he didn’t really flaunt his muggle upbringing, and now he’s paranoid about it, remembering the Pansy debacle.)
  * His first potions class goes great, since he’s read all the books.
  * The next months, however, go to shit. 
    * He can’t do magic. At all. Every single spell he does fails. Rumors start about him being a squib and he falls to the bottom of the Slytherin pecking order. Theo starts to tutor him. Harry first thinks he’s just being nice, and then realizes that since Theo’s already connected himself so closely with Harry, Harry’s success will reflect on him.
    * He studies runes in his spare time, since he’s actually proficient at those. (And Potions, since that also relies on wild magic. He is good at herbology as well.)
  * The troll comes. HERMIONE DIES and turns into a spirit. Her last wish is to know EVERYTHING about the wizarding world. Harry is cheered about this, since it’s unobtainable. (Hermione will be with him forever.) She joins his entourage of ghosts when she can and bugs him to read more in the library. He does so to appease her.
  * Theo finds out around November that Harry can do runes. They concoct a plan to have Harry use runes during class and to use his wand-waving as a distraction. It kinda works, but they both know it’s not a viable, long-term plan.
  * Harry stays with Hermione at the school over the break. His ghosts report that Quirrell is being weird, going to the third floor, etc. Harry in this AU is a lot less reckless. He doesn’t make any moves against him.
  * He gets the invisibility cloak and realizes how perfect it could be for helping to fulfill ghosts’ last wishes. He finds the mirror because spirits lead him to it. He sees himself surrounded by ghosts, with no other living people.
  * He thinks the invisibility cloak is very weird. It feels both comforting and wrong.
  * The ghosts continue to follow Quirrell around. Thanks to his work with runes, Harry’s status improves in Slytherin, and only Theo and he are aware of the cause of the change.
  * Harry doesn’t care enough to go after Quirrell. He fails to get the stone and flees.



 

Second year:

  * Dobby comes, plays out much like before, except for the fact that Dobby is terrified of Harry. When Harry gets angry about the Hover Charm, Dobby drops the notes, squeaks, babbles out an apology, and leaves. Harry doesn’t see him again.
  * The Weasleys’ don’t rescue Harry, but when September 1st comes and goes, Snape shows up on his porch, his teeth bared with righteous indignation. Harry can’t help but trust him more.
  * Lockhart has a snarling ghost who follows him around and wants him dead. Harry learns the truth about him early, but tells no one but his spirits and eventually, Theo. Theo says they should use it as blackmail. Harry thinks that could backfire easily, but lets Theo do what he wants. Hermione protests the blackmail, but Theo can’t hear her, so.
  * Harry still hears the basilisk in the pipes.
  * The dueling club plays out like before, but Malfoy uses Serpensortia as a joke, not in malice. Still, thanks to Lockhart’s bumbling, Harry still talks to the snake. He shoots up in the Slytherin hierarchy (and is coached by Theo on how to handle it) but is thought to be the heir of Slytherin by everyone else.
  * There are no Dobby-related accidents.
  * The blackmail thing comes to a head around when Ginny is taken to the chamber. Harry secretly accompanies Theo to a “quick meeting” with Lockhart, where the professor reveals that he’s dug up a lot of dirt on Theo and his family. If he cares about anything, he’ll let Lockhart oblivate him. At this point, Ron shows up to try to get Lockhart to rescue his sister. Lockhart drags Theo along, so Harry reveals himself and comes along. Ron threatens them at wandpoint and looks really desperate, so Theo urges Harry to help him find the chamber. They do it together (with Hermione’s subtle help), and go to the girl’s bathroom.
  * Harry opens it and they slide down. Immediately, Lockhart threatens Theo again, but it turns out that Theo wanted to engineer this to take out Lockhart. A misfired spell collapses the tunnel, killing Lockhart and trapping Harry on the other side. Ron threatens to tell on Theo unless Harry rescues his sister. (Ron is suuuuper desperate at this point.)
  * Lockhart’s spirit appears. His last wish is to see Theo dead. Harry ignores him.
  * Harry isn’t accustomed to caring about living people and it’s distressing, but he goes to confront Tom Marvolo Riddle. He’s not surprised that Voldemort is still alive, but to him, the spirit looks like a mutilated teenager and he almost throws up. The basilisk, when she emerges, calls him a “dead thing”. He kills her with runes and severs the tie between the diary and Ginny with runes. He keeps the intact diary and returns with Ginny. Ron swears a vow of silence about Theo’s involvement in Lockhart’s death, and the teachers eventually find them.
  * Harry doesn’t know the diary is Lucius Malfoy’s. There is no confrontation over it. Dobby is there, and he hides behind Lucius. When Lucius berates him, Dobby stutters out “dead” and Lucius hits him for talking nonsense. He extends an invitation to Harry to stay for the summer. Dumbledore turns it down for Harry. Harry is simultaneously relieved and annoyed.
  * He also notices that Dumbledore’s wand, when he gets closer to it, has the same sort of weird/wrong aura as his cloak.



 

Third Year:

  * Harry talks to the diary over the summer. He doesn’t let it see that he can talk to ghosts, but eventually Tom notices something is up. When he figures out that Harry is a necromancer, he tells him that that’s a death sentence. 
    * “I’d be killed for being born a necromancer?” he asks, indignant.
    * “What?” Tom replies. “What, no, you can’t be born a necromancer!” They stare at each other for a long moment. “Can you?”
  * Tom is a weird ghost, but a ghost, so Harry trusts him.
  * Tom wants him to help him “find some things” and Harry acquiesces, as long as Tom helps him get to Godric’s Hollow to find his parents. He does. They are sightless, deaf ghosts. Harry and Tom realize why this _specifically_ is an unforgivable.
  * Most horcruxes are inaccessible, but Harry finds the ring, which feels like the wand and the cloak. Tom merges with the bit of soul in the ring, leaving the ring for Harry and becoming stronger.
  * Additionally, this is where some of the history of alternative magic can be revealed. The Purge was a movement in the early 1800s to wipe away “dark magic”, an inaccurate and flimsy term. Practitioners of wild/ritual magic were killed or left the UK. Many purebloods want these laws revoked. This doesn’t negate the fact that the purebloods also terribly racist. (This isn’t a pureblood apologist fic. The purebloods have bad ideas. So does the Light. Wow, it’s like real life.)
  * The Ministry finds them gallivanting about, since they’re looking out for Harry because of Sirius’ escape. He is taken to Diagon Alley.
  * Ahahaha if you thought the ghosts were bad, wait for the DEMENTORS.
  * They feel like the void to Harry. Like a hole gaping in the fabric of the world. Like a putrid wound. Like an endless universe of darkness and terror.
  * And he’s never going to be able to cast a patronus.
  * Isn’t this _fun_ , kids?
  * Harry meets the thestrals, who all love him. He loves them too.
  * When they get to the castle, Tom directs Harry to find the diadem. He absorbs that piece of soul too, and deciding that he’s strong enough, turns on Harry and tries to steal his body. 
    * But he can’t. He passes _through_ Harry’s body, and Harry thrums with pain. He screams and Tom screams too. When he opens his eyes, Tom has retreated.
  * Harry finds it difficult to trust people in the wake of this new betrayal. It doesn’t help that he keeps blacking out, although these episodes decrease in frequency and finally stop.
  * Thus, even more than normal, he doesn’t notice Theo’s advances.
  * As the magic in school becomes more complex and specific, he is pushed to the boundaries of his runic knowledge.
  * Harry is taking runes and arithmancy. He is far beyond what they’re teaching in runes, but arithmancy helps.
  * Remus Lupin tries to connect with Harry, but there is something off about the boy. After a couple of conversations, the werewolf withdraws. He sees less and less of the boy’s parents in him every time. He doesn’t offer to teach Harry the patronus charm.
  * Harry’s boggart is still a dementor. When it raises up its hood, it has Harry’s face. There is more truth to this than Harry knows.
  * Draco doesn’t try to one-up anyone in COMC. Buckbeak lives.
  * Sirius gets Ron and drags him into the Whomping Willow. The twins never gave Harry the Map, so Lupin drinks his potion, so Pettigrew dies, and Ron escapes to tell the convict’s story. Harry doesn’t much care. Would it be nice not to be at the Dursleys? Maybe, but he’d miss his ghosts. He wouldn’t trust Sirius any more than he’d trust the Dursleys.
  * Nott confesses that he likes Harry at the end of the year. Harry is like.... the shit??? What?? Theo recognizes how confused he is and backs off. Tells Harry to think about it.



 

Fourth year:

  * Harry thinks about it. In this story, Harry is asexual (like me~) and doesn’t have the terminology for it. So he decides to tell Theo that he likes him, but he doesn’t like to kiss him. (He definitely has queerplatonic feelings for Theo.) He is also still wary from Tom.
  * Theo takes it well when Harry tells him and they have a preliminary boundary-setting talk. Theo kisses him on the cheek after asking Harry’s consent. Harry blushes. Ghosts cheer.
  * Harry tells Theo about the necromancy, Tom, the Dursleys’, etc.
  * Triwizard tournament! Harry’s name comes out of the goblet, Hermione urges him into a research spree. Snape is furious about making him compete, but helps where he can.
  * Harry has Voldemort dreams, but because Wormtail’s dead, he sees Barty Crouch Jr, and later an Imperioed Muggle taking care of him.
  * However, at the end of the second task, he becomes strangely, abnormally happy... about an arrival? And then the connection feels like it has been completely severed.
  * (Theo is at the bottom of the lake.)
  * Moody is still Crouch Jr. He teaches the course on the unforgivables, and Imperio doesn’t affect Harry even a little bit when it is cast on him. However, the sight of Avada Kedavra makes him want to throw up.
  * Harry gets past the dragons by having Theo help him sew runes into a cloak to be fireproof and then Hermione helps him research spells that were close to the runic circles he would be surreptitiously using during the task.
  * He gets past the lake with gillyweed from Professor Snape.
  * Harry isn’t magnanimous with the cup, but he and Cedric still tie.
  * Cedric dies thanks to Crouch Jr. It’s Avada Kedavra, so Harry is traumatized because he witnesses firsthand the spiritual mutilation of the spell. Cedric’s spirit will be in the graveyard forever.
  * Voldemort returns with Harry’s blood but he is much, much saner because his three-big-bits-melded-together horcrux has rejoined the main body. He makes references to Harry’s interaction with the diary, Harry’s “darkness”, and when he touches Harry, he is obviously thrown. He lets Harry go. (Because he realizes that Harry’s a horcrux.)
  * Harry returns, but people are suspicious, especially Dumbledore. Harry doesn’t tell him anything, but Dumbledore knows that Voldemort has returned. Snape doesn’t tell Dumbledore about Voldemort’s strange behavior with Harry.



 

Fifth year:

  * Umbridge comes. She is terrible, but Harry knows how to resist terrible people. His ghosts help, and he doesn’t have any blood quill detentions.
  * The Wizarding World is watching him, and during his fifth year, someone (idk who) figures out Harry’s necromancy. They threaten to go to the Ministry (or Umbridge) with it, and Theo embarks on a second blackmail campaign to protect his boyfriend. (At this point, Harry’s feelings have become more romantic, so they’re an asexual romantic couple.)
  * This blackmail thing is disastrous. It backfires and Theo dies. (I’m sorry.)
  * Theo becomes a bound ghost to Harry. Harry knows that Theo will pass on when Harry dies.
  * In the wake of Theo’s death, Harry withdraws and begins again to only care about the dead.
  * Theo urges him to connect with living people. He gets closer to Draco and co. and leans on Snape as a mentor.
  * Theo informs Harry that his invisibility cloak is uncomfortable. Also, that he can see through _other_ invisibility cloaks now that he’s dead, but not Harry’s. Harry is intrigued. He shows Theo the stone and Theo says that it feels weird too. He half-recalls a children’s story about three items but can’t recall the details.
  * Harry asks Draco who tells him about the Deathly Hallows.
  * Harry continues studying the cloak and stone. The year draws to a close.



 

Sixth year:

  * Theo can’t come with Harry to the Dursleys’. Harry is sad.
  * Draco gives him a pile of old books about necromancy.



 

Okay, this is where the specifics ended. The general things that happen in the next two years are:

 

  * Harry gets the wand. He is informed by the dementors of the Peverell brothers about their creation and how they perverted the Beyond to imbue the Hallows with unnatural powers. They were necromancers. (Normal ones... that used rituals to become necromancers. Not like Harry, who did nothing to become a necromancer.)
  * He finds out that the reason spirits are sometimes stuck on this plane when they have intense desires is because of the damage the Beyond took when the brothers perverted the natural order of things. To let all spirits go to the Beyond, he has to fix the damage.
  * He finds out that all dementors were necromancers who died after the creation of the Hallows. If he should die before destroying the Hallows, he would become a dementor too.
  * He also learns about the horcruxes, and is able to construct an accurate picture of how he survived/how he is a necromancer. The Avada Kedavra spell was hampered but not stopped by a soul magic ritual that his mother did. Part of it did rebound and detach a bit of soul from Voldemort, which entered Harry’s body. His soul was still leaving his body, but it was tethered to the mortal plane by the horcrux. Thus, his actual soul exists between the mortal plane and the Beyond, which is possible because of the damage to the Beyond caused by the Hallows.
  * Harry decides to destroy the Hallows, which he thinks will kill him and he knows will send Theo and Hermione to the Beyond, leaving him forever.
  * He destroys them.
  * He actually survives, but his soul is back fully on the mortal plane and all the ghosts are (presumably) gone. He can still use wild magic, but wizarding magic doesn’t hurt him anymore. (The reason it did in the first place was because it affected his mortal body, which only had a flimsy tether to his soul. Thus, every piece of magic cast on him threatened the stability of his soul.
  * During these years, his relationship with Draco deepens and it is implied at the end that he is open to see where things go with Draco.
  * His mentor relationship with Snape turns into something more like colleagues.
  * At the end, Voldemort is still alive, but Harry doesn’t give a shit. In his eyes, he’s fulfilled his duty.
  * (He totally could have vanquished the Dark Lord, but he’d rather travel the world to places more accepting of necromancy.)



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this outline was somewhat satisfying. As you can see, this story would have been... gigantic.


End file.
